


Sheer Indulgence

by eratospen



Series: At the End of War [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Belly Kink, Body Worship, Feeding Kink, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2020-07-29 18:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 31,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20087014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratospen/pseuds/eratospen
Summary: Male weight gain fanfiction. If this doesn't sound like your kind of kink, then this story is not for you.Inquisitor Lavellan has been working hard for all of Thedas, but even the Herald needs a break from his life. Thankfully Dorian and Bull are there to see to his needs...and maybe indulge in a very large kink the three realize they share.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for MISTWILM. This fic is still ongoing.
> 
> Mistwilm also drew a gorgeous picture to go along with it. Go [here](https://www.deviantart.com/mistwilm/art/Sketch-Bathtime-793118410) to check it out. (Trust me, you don't want to miss it.)

It was late—or was it early?—the sky gone a bruised purple as Dorian leaned back against the heavy doorjamb and watched the night’s endless revelry. The party had begun hours and hours ago, and it had every sign of continuing long past dawn. Maker, but he could _feel_ the manic relief threading through the air.

The Great Hall behind him was aglow with a truly excessive number of candles, their flickering light cast down on clusters of laughing, flushed, absolutely sauced faces. Outside, a bonfire or three had been lit in the sprawling courtyards, and fiddles shredded the night as scouts and soldiers and advisors alike toasted their survival and the end of the war. 

The end of Corypheus. 

The end of bloody well everything. 

He swirled the wine in his goblet and fought not to scowl, refusing to let his eyes be drawn to the huge horned figure silhouetted against a dancing lick of flames. By all rights, he probably should be out there with the oaf. He should be enjoying himself. This was his victory too, damn it. 

And yet melancholy soured the wine on his tongue as he thought, again and again: _I’ll have to leave all this behind soon. _Skyhold, and the Inquisitor who had become his unlikely friend, and the qunari spy who had become his even more unlikely lover: soon, it would all be behind him, and this madcap celebration marked the division between this moment of plenty and a future of…what? Backstabbing politics and endless lonely nights as he fought to save a country that didn’t want to be saved? 

_Bah._

A soft hand touched his elbow. It shouldn’t have startled him—_venhedis_, when was the last time he’d actually let down his guard enough to be snuck up upon?—but Dorian bit back a reflexive yelp as he straightened, rich red wine sloshing over the rim of his cup. A spray of droplets caught against his wrist, threatening to bead into the embroidered sleeve of his robe (which _would not do, _thank you very much; his night had been ruined well enough without adding impossible stains to the mix_) _and he blindly pushed the goblet into the Inquisitor’s hands with a hiss of annoyance. “Hold this. Drink it. Toss it away. Do what you want, but take it from me: I’m clearly not to be trusted with any more alcohol tonight.” 

He lifted his wrist, carefully pulling back the sleeve, and sucked the trickle of wine from his own skin. _Like some heathen_, and his eyes most certainly did not tick back over to the hulking figure by the bonfire. 

The Inquisitor blinked up at him, cup in hand, narrow face as inscrutable as ever. When they’d first met long ago, Dorian hadn’t known what to make of the other man. Alienage-raised and unnervingly quiet, Inquisitor Jael had a face of carved stone and eyes of marble: there was no reading anything he didn’t want you to see. 

Time had softened some of Jael’s reserve, and deepening friendship had revealed an absolutely wicked sense of humor, but even now Dorian found he couldn’t read his best friend for _shit_. 

The best friend he was preparing to leave behind. 

He sighed and dropped his hand. The heavy velvet sleeve slid back into place—and Jael’s eyes were fixed now on the mostly-full goblet, brows very faintly puckered. 

“What are you thinking?” Dorian asked. Being direct was the only way to truly know with this one. 

Long lashes flickered, and Jael glanced up, studying his face. “That’s not what matters,” he decided, voice low and laced with a faint Starkhaven burr. “Why are you upset?” 

Dorian hesitated. Tell him now, or wait? Jael deserved to know Dorian had no plans of sticking around indefinitely…but then, he owed Bull an explanation _first_. Delay, then. “I’m really more interested in a diversion than a heart-to-heart,” he said, waving away the question airily. “So, come, be a friend and divert me.” 

One corner of Jael’s mouth twitched up. “All right,” he said, then lifted Dorian’s goblet. “I was just thinking: for all these _things_ I’ve been dragged to—” by which, Dorian assumed, he meant banquets and balls, “—and all the strange casks of this-and-that I’ve collected in our travels, I’ve never actually been drunk.” 

That…seemed impossible. “You’re joking,” Dorian said, thoroughly distracted from his own angst for the moment. The idea was preposterous. “I’ve _seen_ you drink before.” 

“True,” Jael said, “but I always stop before I feel it.” 

“At the tavern,” Dorian began, then paused, mentally casting back. Huh. 

“I nurse the same glass all night,” Jael finished for him. “It isn’t that I don’t like the taste. It isn’t even about keeping up appearances—I’ve never really cared what the Inquisitor should or should not do.” True enough, and it had driven Josephine around the bend more often than not. “I simply…” He held up the goblet, studying it thoughtfully, something inscrutable on his fine-boned face. “Never felt comfortable losing control, I suppose.” 

That struck Dorian as unspeakably sad. Not that Jael had never been intoxicated so much as that he’d never fully felt _relaxed_. Safe. 

They’d talked about his life in the Starkhaven alienage before, but all those conversations felt terribly academic in light of the way Jael now took a measured sip—real pleasure lighting subtly in his hazel eyes—before setting the glass firmly away on one of the marble pedestals lining the hall. As if those simple pleasures, that sense of comfort and safety, the sheer security that would give him permission to let go, weren’t meant for someone like him. 

The very thought all but broke Dorian’s heart. 

“Anyway,” Jael said, refocusing on Dorian, “Varric was looking to pull together another round of Wicked Grace. Cullen’s had enough to drink that he’s agreed to play,” he added, as if Dorian needed convincing. “Guaranteed free peep show.” 

He’d rather tug Jael into some quiet corner to talk, to reassure, to— To bloody well _something_. But it was too late and he was feeling too much and he couldn’t be sure he even understood his own distress over the idea of Jael willingly resigning himself to such a sad little monastic life where control was safety as well as prison. “Well,” he said, trying for a casual smile. Judging by the faint quirk of one of Jael’s brows, he didn’t succeed. “When you put it like _that_, how can I resist?”


	2. Chapter 2

Much, much later, Dorian lay curled and spent against Bull’s warm bulk, his body rising and falling with every deep breath. He was tired, sore, every inch of him still quivering. And yet he couldn’t help but think back to what Jael had confessed.  
  
“Did you know,” Dorian asked, trying for casual, “our dear Inquisitor has _never_ been intoxicated?”  
  
Bull hummed a deep breath. “Yup,” he said, simply.  
  
Dorian lifted his head, eyes narrowing. “Liar,” he said, though of course the qunari spy _would_ notice something like that. Bull snorted, as if thinking the same thing. “Oh, fine. How long have you known?”  
  
“Pretty much right away,” Bull said. He blinked sleepily at Dorian, practically emanating smug satiation as one broad, rough hand moved to cup Dorian’s bare ass, giving it a squeeze. “He’s subtle, but there’s no hiding the half-starved way he looks at things sometimes. Like he wants it, but doesn’t know how to get it.”  
  
That sounded much like what Dorian had been responding to earlier, and _venhedis_, but it hurt to think about. Jael should have everything he wanted; he should have every bloody comfort in the world. “Things like what?”  
  
Bull hummed a thoughtful breath. “Good drink, good food, fine clothing, extravagant indulgences, handsome men.” The last was said with a faint lift of the brow that had Dorian’s stomach squirming, though he couldn’t say why. “The kid’s got an inner hedonist. Just doesn’t know how to let it out. Doesn’t trust the world to stay still long enough to let him try.”  
  
Dorian sat up, easily straddling one of Bull’s thick thighs. “That… We have to do something about that, of course.” Never mind that he wasn’t going to be around long enough to _do_ much of anything. “What are our options?”  
  
“Chargers and I go on plenty of routine scouting ops,” Bull said immediately, as if he’d been waiting for Dorian to ask. As if, bloody man, he’d seen this all coming a mile away. “Could bring him along on a few. Not much actual danger around here anymore, so no need to stay on high alert, and shit gets real wild around the campfire at night. Surrounded by friends and with nothing to do’s a pretty good excuse to relax and let go.”  
  
Dorian narrowed his eyes playfully. “_Shit gets real wild_, does it?” he said, pressing his spread hands against Bull’s chest as he leaned in closer. “And what exactly are _you_ getting up to?”  
  
This time Bull laughed, catching him around the waist and rolling with him until Dorian was pinned beneath his massive bulk—helpless and unable to move, twitching against the gentle-yet-rough press of all those muscles and oh yes, loving every second. “Nothing you wouldn’t approve of, kadan,” Bull said simply, leaning in to brush his stubble-rough cheek against Dorian’s skin. “But don’t take my word for it: come along. Help me get the boss good and drunk. Let down your _own _hair before you leave us.”  
  
_Before you leave us_.  
  
Dorian stiffened, breath caught in his chest, as Bull pulled back to look at him. His throat was incredibly dry. “How’d you know?” he asked, hating how choked-up he sounded. Hating more how much it _hurt_ when Bull just smiled gently, softly, as if Dorian’s devotion to his country wasn’t about to tear them apart for good.  
  
“Call it a lucky guess,” Bull lied, something like real pain sparking in his eyes before he blinked and it was gone—a trick of the light. An illusion, nothing more. “But _until_ you hare yourself off to Tevinter,” Bull added, leaning in again with a wolfish grin, “I’m going to show you a good time: starting one ‘scouting mission’ at a time.”  
  
No matter how full his chest felt or how much he wanted to twist free and demand they talk about this for real—like _actual_partners instead of whatever it was they defaulted to when things got too tough—Dorian couldn’t help but laugh. “All right,” he said, “if you can convince Jael to go on one of your hedonistic little camping trips, I’ll come along too. As chaperone, if nothing else.”  
  
Bull grinned, thighs shifting to bracket Dorian’s body as he deliberately pressed him down into the soft give of the mattress. “And who’s going to chaperone _you_ when you’re dangling like some pretty Orlesian tart off the end of my—”  
  
The rest was muffled as Dorian swallowed the words with an exasperated kiss, smile warm against his lover’s lips, breath hot against his skin, and whole mind and heart and body and soul crying out that this, _this_, this was not the sort of thing he could ever learn to live without.


	3. Chapter 3

“I feel like the world is spinning,” Jael said, staring up at the wide-open night sky with a look of raw wonder on his face. He was swaying in one spot, words slurring together endearingly, every ounce of him focused on that endless expanse of stars. “Like I’m standing still and everything else is moving around me. Do you feel that?”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Bull said with a laugh, leaning to push another log onto the fire. He was relaxed and loose-limbed as ever—and probably the only one amongst them who wasn’t at least a little drunk. “You’re standing real still there, boss.”  
  
Jael laughed—_laughed_—and flapped his hand blindly toward Bull. “You’re being sarcastic, but I’m telling you: the world is _dancing_.”  
  
“Maybe you should try dancing with it,” Dorian suggested, feeling twelve kinds of cozy inside. Bull had been right, as usual. Even though Jael had been reluctant to leave behind the work of stitching the world back together post-Corypheus—and even more reluctant to relax his guard once they were all ringed around the campfire—once he’d tentatively begun to give in, it was like watching a floodwater break. They’d snagged several of the bottles he’d collected over their travels (weird old vintages Dorian didn’t even want to think about the genesis of) as well as several casks of ale, some qunari devil-brew, and a few bottles of good, sweet, Orlesian wine.  
  
_For those of us who don’t want to sandpaper our tongues in the morning_, Dorian had sniffed.  
  
Most of the Chargers had ventured off from the main campfire, and the night was remarkably calm. Sparks spat up toward the sky, their heat mingling with the cool breeze sweeping down the Frostbacks. The world seemed to stand still for once—in direct contrast to whatever Jael was experiencing—holding its breath and letting its savior enjoy himself for a change.  
  
Speaking of… Dorian set aside his glass and lifted a warning hand when Jael bobbed and wove toward him, skirting the fire a touch closer than he would have liked for just how terribly _drunk_ the little elf was. “Careful,” Dorian warned. “I didn’t mean for you to dance right into the fire.”  
  
“Pfft,” Jael said, then giggled—actually giggled. Anything would be worth hearing that sound again. Laughter had been in rare supply since the world had torn itself in two. “If you’re so worried, then why don’t you come dance with me? Dance with me, Dorian,” he added in a lower voice, falling to his knees by Dorian’s side. His breath—fragrant with a mix of ale and wine—washed over Dorian’s cheeks. His remarkably delicate hand fell to Dorian’s waist. This close, framed by firelight, Jael was extraordinarily pretty: shoulder-length hair a tawny honey-gold, serious brows several shades darker, unexpectedly sensual lips parted in a rare smile.  
  
Every bit of the Inquisitor was always such a study of tight control and sharp lines that it was easy to overlook this part of him existed too, deep beneath the surface. And void take him, but Dorian actually felt himself leaning in _closer_, even though Bull was sitting across the fire watching this whole messy affair go down.  
  
Dorian swallowed and swayed back, alarmed by how (for just a moment), he’d almost wanted to stroke back Jael’s hair and kiss his ale-slick mouth. _Venhedis_. Obviously he’d had _enough_ to drink himself: time to sober up. “Why don’t we save dancing for later, hmm?” Dorian tried, flicking his gaze quickly toward Bull. “When the world isn’t dancing with us.”  
  
Bull tilted his head, expression unreadable, but at least there didn’t appear to be any tension in his big body. That was good.  
  
“That’s…no fun,” Jael decided, but he flopped down—flopped _against Dorian_—curling instinctively into the curve of his body. Dorian froze, unsure of what to do. Other than the very occasional exception, Jael was _not_ a physically demonstrative friend. And yet here he was, pressed warm to Dorian’s side, the sharp dagger of his hipbone digging near-painfully into his thigh. “I want to have _fun_. This is the night, you know,” he added with the intense seriousness of intoxication. “The one night I’m going to just say fuck everything and have _fun_.”  
  
“More than one night, boss,” Bull argued. “The boys and I come out here all the time, and you’re going to start coming with us. Gotta get your tolerance up somehow,” he added with a smirk; Jael flipped him off. “You barely had a thimble-full, and look at you now.”  
  
Jael grumbled and pressed his face into the crook of Dorian’s neck. “Look at me now,” he murmured, and the heat of his breath was so unexpectedly good that Dorian didn’t know _where_ to look or _what_ to do.  
  
He met Bull’s eyes again, across the fire, but his lover just smiled. He looked, if anything, happy to have the Inquisitor coiled like a snake by Dorian’s side. Krem—the only other Charger still at the main fire—was giving him more of a side-eye than his own lover.  
  
“Hm. Maybe. Would you come too, Dorian?” Jael asked after a moment, stirring. He tilted his face to look up at him, hazel-green eyes gone hazy—but also so incredibly warm, and open, and…_content_. Dorian could read the contentment so clearly on his face, and that was such an unexpected gift that he wasn’t sure what to do. “To our…our bacchanalias?” He laughed at the way he mangled the word. “Help me get my tolerance up?”  
  
_I’m leaving the Inquisition. I’m going to Tevinter_.  
  
The words were on his tongue, but of course he couldn’t say them. Not with those eyes looking up at him and swallowing his world whole. Not with Bull watching them both with such warmth from across the fire.  
  
He swallowed hard. “Yes,” Dorian said, giving in to inevitable. There was really no rush to leave for Tevinter, anyway. Another month or three wouldn’t make much impact. “I’ll come.”  
  
“Good,” Jael said, eyes closing. Then, quieter—quiet enough Dorian wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear—he added, “I trust you.”  
  
Oh. Maker. His heart.  
  
He began to move instinctively, sliding his arms around Jael to gather his most beloved friend up and possibly _never_ let go, but he was saved from embarrassment (and an awkward conversation later with his lover who was still, oh yes, _sitting right there _watching) by the arrival of Dalish and Grim.  
  
“Is the Inquisitor down for the count, then?” Dalish asked, swinging her hips in an exaggerated pose. She’d been drinking harder than most the rest and was well on her way to _sloppy_ drunk. Even still, her words were barely slurred together; it was impressive, really. “Not up for breaking into the chief’s _special_ booze?”  
  
Jael lifted his head, taking the bait and, blessedly, pulling away from Dorian. Thank the Maker, because tipsy as he was, Dorian was three seconds away from snuggling him. Wine was a very dangerous thing. “I’m up for it,” he said, scrambling up to his knees as if to prove it. He nearly upended, arms buckling, but he caught himself before he faceplanted in the dirt, _giggling_ again with such joy it was instantly contagious. “I want to try the chief’s special booze.”  
  
“Don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Krem said, visibly amused, as Jael swayed his way up onto his feet. “It’s brewed specially for qunari. It’s sweet as anything going down, but it packs a punch. You’ll be tits over arse.”  
  
“Joke’s on you,” Jael said, dragging back his long hair. He grinned, loose-limbed and terribly endearing. “I’m an elf: I don’t _have_any tits or much of an arse to speak of. All I’ve got are bones.”  
  
Krem snorted. “You make a habit out of drinking that stuff, and you might get yourself more than that,” he warned. “It works fine for qunari, but it’s got a funny way of sticking to the rest of us. I got a bit too into the stuff about a year or so back,” he added at Dorian’s curious noise. One hand patted his trim stomach wryly. “It’s a good time going down, but it took longer than I want to admit to work off the gut it packed onto me.”  
  
“That was a pretty good time, too,” Bull laughed. “Watching you squeeze out of your armor and go wobbling about the camp. Our little Krem Puff. Our Krem de la Krem.”  
  
Krem flipped him off, but he didn’t actually look angry. “Fair warning, that’s all.”  
  
“Pfft, that’d never happen,” Jael decided, making his way to the other side of the fire and Bull. Bull caught his narrow hips naturally, as if it was a simple matter of course, and swung him down easily by his side. Dorian waited for jealousy to flare at the sight of the two of them pressed so close together, but it never came. “Have you _ever_ seen a fat elf?”  
  
“Once,” Dalish said, legs folding up under her as she sat hard onto the dirt. “In Orlais. Talk about a _cream puff_. She had a belly fatter than Krem’s!”  
  
Krem made as if to playfully lunge for her and Dalish fell back to avoid him, cackling. Grim simply shook his head.  
  
Jael, for his part, looked intrigued—then shook his head as if scaring off a random thought. He pivoted to look at Bull. “I want to try things,” he said, determined. “While I’m out here, with you, I want to try everything. Give it to me? Please?”  
  
“Bull,” Dorian warned, because Jael was drunk enough already; the last thing they needed was for some kind of qunari super-alcohol to send the Inquisitor spiraling into the stratosphere.  
  
But Bull waved him off. “It makes you feel good more than anything else,” he said, shifting to reach for his saddlebag and pull out a stoppered jug. It looked ridiculously small in his hands, and just as ridiculously huge when he pressed it into Jael’s. “And it’ll soak up any potential hangover the boss’d be in for otherwise. If I thought I could talk you into it, I’d get you all to drink a glass or two so I don’t have to hear you whining in the morning.”  
  
“No thanks,” Krem said feelingly, rubbing at his stomach again even as Jael pulled out the stopper and took a long, inelegant swallow. “I remember going down that road before, and I didn’t like the way it _jiggled_ afterward.”  
  
“Your call,” Bull said, then dropped a hand to Jael’s back. He rubbed a slow circle against his spine as the Inquisitor took a deep breath, then sipped from the jug again. “But I’m thinking the boss here is realizing the most important lesson of the night.” He caught Dorian’s eye and winked. “A little indulgence now and again doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”


	4. Chapter 4

Days passed.  
  
Weeks passed.  
  
Dorian stayed at Skyhold and never once breached the idea of leaving for Tevinter. Instead, he spent most of his days studying, most of his nights sweating in Bull’s arms, and increasing amounts of time out on ‘scouting missions’ with the Inquisitor and the Chargers: enjoying the growing warmth of the oncoming spring and having rip-roaring parties that lasted well into the night.  
  
Jael was a changed person on those trips. Back at Skyhold, he was his usual tightly controlled self, but out there amongst the wilderness, he was laughing, happy, flushed with life and far too much booze and all the limitless possibilities of a world without crushing responsibility.  
  
He was _glorious_.  
  
And it was getting to the point where, once they were out there, Dorian never wanted to go back. “Do you think anyone would notice if we kidnapped him?” he asked Bull one of those nights. They were curled up in the tent they shared, skin to skin and subtly moving together. Dorian never let things get too heated while they were out camping with the Chargers—he knew he could be _loud_, and he refused to let Bull gag him no matter how sweetly he offered—but the sensual glide felt good. Hot. _Right_, as if the friction of Bull’s semi-hard cock against his stomach was lighting fires one by one throughout his body.  
  
He’d meant the question as a joke, of course, but Bull hummed thoughtfully, as if he really were considering it. Jael was passed out in his own tent by now—carefully positioned so he couldn’t get sick and choke in the night. Though that seemed unlikely. Even though Jael seemed determined to experiment with every blend of alcohol imaginable (testing and expanding his tolerance as if learning the limits of his own body), so long as he ended the night with that qunari swill, he was alert and lively come morning. It was remarkable.  
  
“Maybe if we had a place to take him,” Bull finally settled on, fingers digging tight into Dorian’s ass, one fingertip sliding between the cleft. “Somewhere nice, where no one could bother him.”  
  
“I was being facetious,” Dorian pointed out.  
  
Bull just hummed a breath. “Were you?” he asked.  
  
He didn’t know how to answer that…so he simply didn’t answer, instead pressing up for an open-mouthed kiss. Slow and languid as the grind of their bodies, heat shimmering through him in a pleasant haze. And if part of his mind was with the Inquisitor just one tent over, sleeping off this latest test of his slowly expanding boundaries, then, well…  
  
That was only natural, too. Right?


	5. Chapter 5

_~Overheard at Skyhold~_  
  
“The Inquisitor’s been looking healthy lately.”  
  
“You know, I didn’t want to say anything in case my eyes were tricking me, but you’re right. He’s been positively glowing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the like on him: usually such a serious, dour little fellow.”  
  
A laugh. “_Dour little fellow_, she says, as if he hadn’t saved the whole bloody world.”  
  
“Oh, you know what I mean!” Swat of fabric. “But I swore I saw him smile once. And you know, I think he may finally be putting a little meat on those bones.”  
  
“You figure?”  
  
“Could be my imagination, but I swear he doesn’t look quite as much like a stick-straight line anymore. Still not quite as healthy as a human lad his age, but some of that elfy skin-over-bones starved waif thing he’s always had going may finally be a thing of the past—and good riddance, too.”  
  
Another low laugh. “Hush, you. Shameful talk. Now come on and help me finish loading up before Lady Montilyet comes across us dawdling.”  
  
  
  
_~Another conversation at Skyhold, later~_  
  
“Inquisitor’s looking healthy lately.”  
  
Laughs. “Oh, sure, that’s one word for it.”  
  
“…what do you mean?”  
  
Awkward pause. “Oh. _Oh_. I thought you were referring to… Um. You know what, never mind. None of my business anyway, right?”  
  
  
  
_~Another conversation at Skyhold, even later~_  
  
“You know, it’s funny, but I never figured a knife-ear _could_ get chonky.”  
  
Sharply, “Don’t say that.”  
  
“What? Chonky?”  
  
“No, you idiot: _knife-ear_. He’s the Inquisitor, for Maker’s sake.”  
  
Shrug. “All right then. Point still stands. Trotting around in that weird skin-tight beige suit he favors, it’s getting more obvious: Inquisitor’s growing himself a bit of a belly.”  
  
“It’s not much of one.”  
  
“But you agree that it’s something?”  
  
Another shrug. “Well, sure. It’s getting hard not to notice, I guess. The rest of him’s as skinny as a whippet, so any change—”  
  
“By which you mean the bump pushing out against his shirt-fronts? If it gets any bigger, the kn—_Inquisitor_’s going to start looking downright preggers.”  
  
Swat. “Oh, it’s not as bad as that. It wouldn’t even be noticeable if he weren’t such a little thing.”  
  
“Well, between you and me, he may be a _little thing_, but that beer gut he’s been growing has no plans of being little for much longer: you mark my words.”  
  
  
  
_~Another conversation at Skyhold, even later still~_  
  
“Holy shit, did you see the Inquisitor today?”  
  
“I barely noticed him: I was too busy staring at those buttons waiting for one to go flying off!”  
  
Laughs. “Seemed pretty likely, didn’t it? That gut’s starting to get out of control. I swear I saw flashes of skin every time he breathed.”  
  
“Sad day for the Inquisition when it can’t even afford to get a growing elf some new clothes, eh?”  
  
“With the way that elf’s been _growing_ lately, maybe the tailors just can’t keep up!”  
  
More laughter.


	6. Chapter 6

“My dear, I’m not saying this to be hurtful.” Vivienne’s voice drifted down through the Inquisitor’s open door. Dorian paused mid-step, wondering if he should come back later. Or, perhaps better yet, just leave the armful of books with one of the Inquisitor’s stewards. “But you do know how people like to talk.”  
  
“And the Inquisition has an image to protect,” Jael replied, voice sounding so flat—so defeated—that Dorian felt an unexpected flare of protective rage. “I understand. Thank you for speaking to me directly.”  
  
“Of course, dear. You know I am always on your side.” There were footsteps, then Vivienne rounded the bend in the stairs. She looked as regal as ever, inclining her head when she spotted Dorian. He gave a tight-lipped nod back, waiting for her to pass before making his way up the stairs and into Jael’s bedchamber. He spotted his friend standing at the far end of the room, staring moodily into his floor-length mirror. “Ah, there you are,” Dorian said, keeping his voice light. Whatever Vivienne had said had clearly found its mark: Jael’s shoulders were tight, his posture absolutely controlled. _Venhedis_. It looked like another ‘scouting mission’ was in order if he wanted to relax his friend’s spirits again. “I remembered you showed some curiosity about continued research into spirit magic, so I pulled everything I could think of that…”  
  
Dorian trailed off when it became clear Jael was not listening. Frowning, Dorian set his books on the bedside table and slowly prowled closer, watching Jael watch his own reflection.  
  
Closer, the Inquisitor’s expression (reflected back to him) was easier to see but impossible to read. He was scanning his own body as if looking for injuries, shirt unexpectedly open. Had Vivienne been healing him? Was there something amiss?  
  
“Are you hurt?” Dorian asked, voice dipped low, quiet. He reached out to touch his friend’s shoulder.  
  
Jael looked up, meeting Dorian’s eyes in the mirror. “No,” he said. Then: “I am…conflicted.”  
  
“I see,” Dorian replied, though he didn’t see at all. “About what, pray tell?”  
  
“Vivienne wanted me to know that people are talking,” Jael said. “Gossiping. About me. And it isn’t particularly kind.”  
  
Dorian squeezed Jael’s shoulder before dropping his hand, struggling to control the swell of righteous indignation. “People are always talking,” he said bitterly. Maker knew he’d grown used to hearing the whispered barbs as he passed ever since joining the Inquisition. “Whatever small things they have to occupy their minds don’t matter.”  
  
“They matter if they reflect poorly on the Inquisition,” Jael pointed out doggedly. Then he sighed, gaze dropping again, no longer looking at Dorian. “And I’ve been reflecting poorly on the Inquisition lately. I need to do better.” He straightened his shoulders and turned away, tugging his shirt closed and beginning to button it again. “I can no longer go on scouting missions with you and Bull.”  
  
That—  
  
That was _unacceptable_. “The void you can’t,” Dorian said. Jael always seemed so much happier, so much brighter inside, the further they got away from his mountain of responsibilities. There had been such a marked change in his friend that he couldn’t even imagine going back to the way things used to be. “Is there gossip about you being gone so often? Because as much as you love to take everything upon your shoulders, I have to tell you, _most_ of the Inquisition can run on its own without you now. You don’t need to live like a bloody monk anymore.”  
  
“It’s not my being gone,” Jael said, back still to Dorian, visibly struggling with his buttons. “It’s— It’s the impact of indulgence. People are _talking_, and even though Vivienne is the only one who’s been honest enough to bring it to my attention, I know Josephine and Leliana and Cullen and Cassandra and _all of them_ are thinking the same thing. I’m disgracing the Inquisition, and I need to stop.”  
  
“You’re disgracing _nothing_,” Dorian shot back. He moved forward, filled with an unnamable rage at the mere idea of anyone making Jael feel this way. “There’s no harm in what we’ve been doing.”  
  
Jael sighed in disgust and pivoted on his heel, hands dropping to his narrow hips, both brows arched. “Isn’t there?” he demanded, letting Dorian get a good view of him for the first time.  
  
And the thing was, it wasn’t as if Dorian had been completely unaware that his friend’s body was subtly changing over the past weeks of revelry. He was vaguely aware of the line of Jael’s shirts fitting differently—of an unexpected curve interrupting the usual straight lines of his elven body. But here, now, in this moment, he was confronted with the stark reality of the change…and it was more than a little shocking.  
  
It was the angle, really, and the way the half-button shirt _strained_. Jael had managed to slip three of the buttons into their loops, but even those gaped, showing small crescents of flesh. His face was as narrow as ever, his shoulders and arms as lithe, his hips as trim, his legs (encased in those strange skinny beige pants he favored) little more than skin over bone. But his stomach…  
  
Well. His gut, really. His proud little dome of a pot belly, poking out from a flat chest and curving from his body like a woman in the early stages of pregnancy. It looked _bigger_ like this, framed by the strain of his far-too-small shirt. Maker, but his trousers nestled a little _under_ the swell. There was a hint of fat collected over the edge of his trousers (a tiny, _tiny_ roll that formed every time he breathed), but most of his _indulgence_ had gone to the hard little beer belly pushing out in a bloat from his form.  
  
Dorian felt an insane desire to reach out and cup his hands around the Inquisitor’s small gut. To give it a shake and see if it jiggled.  
  
_Madness._ He pushed the surprising, appalling thought away, swallowing hard. “So you’ve gained a little weight,” Dorian said, voice unexpectedly hoarse. “I don’t see why that’s a problem. Unless you feel uncomfortable with it?”  
  
Jael sighed and reached down to cup one hand against the side of his pot. He gave it a little rub. “I’m not uncomfortable,” he said slowly, thoughtfully. “I don’t mind it at all. I think I may even like the change a little? Growing up in the alienage,” he added at Dorian’s questioning noise, “we had nothing. There were no _fat elves_. Fatness was reserved for the people in power over us; the people who could laze around and feed their indolence and indulge themselves whenever they wanted. This.” He gave himself a little smack, and Dorian was inexplicably charmed to see that there _was_ a little jiggle despite the packed-full appearance of that modest dome. “This wasn’t something someone like me ever even thought about. So when I realized all that drinking was changing me, it just made me want to go off with you into the mountains and drink _more_.”  
  
He sighed again and moved to sit on his bed, flopping down. The buttons visibly strained to contain him, the edges of his shirt rolling up as his belly pooched out. From this angle, he looked properly chubby, his pot belly straining forward as if _it_ wanted more and more too—as if it wanted to get even _bigger_. “I always used to be envious of those spoiled human men who never had to worry about anything but their own pleasure,” Jael admitted quietly. “For the past couple of months, every time we go out with the Chargers, I’ve been pretending I was like one of _them_. Dissolute. Spoiled. Given over completely to the pleasures of the flesh.”  
  
Jael looked down at himself—at the shirt gamely clinging to the beer gut he’d so diligently grown with his dream of simple pleasures—and shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind if I blew up even _fatter_. But a fat elf? A fat Inquisitor? Can you just imagine me rolling down the halls of Skyhold belly-first, swaddled in silk and glinting with jewels and devouring every bit of food or drink in my wake?” He scoffed, even as Dorian felt a strange twinge low in his own belly at the sudden visceral image that painted for him: wide, heavy hips brushing golden doorframes. A wobbly belly moving with each step of a chunky thigh. Rings on fat fingers and satin exposing just as much pale flesh as it covered. Wine-wet lips and a stuffed daze in hazel eyes as Jael sank back amongst pillows and allowed his prodigious bulk to be massaged—his belly to be pinched and rolled and lifted to expose the hard line of his flushed cock…  
  
Dorian slammed his eyes shut, horrified, titillated, _confused_.  
  
And the Inquisitor was still talking.  
  
“…stop drinking so much and start joining Cullen and his men for exercise in the morning. Before long, all this should fade away, and I won’t worry about having to embarrass any diplomats with my _appetites._”  
  
“Right, no,” Dorian said, flustered. He took a step back. “That is—hold off on a decision. It’s—It’s your body, is it not? And you deserve to be pampered.” He gave a laugh that sounded a little uneven to his own ears. “I mean, after all you’ve done.”  
  
Jael made a doubtful noise, and the bed creaked subtly as he pushed himself up. Dorian had to watch (he simply had to) as Jael moved to his dresser, unbuttoning his too-small shirt and shucking it off. His gut pushed out proud in front of him, like the prow of a ship. Maker, in profile, it really was impossible to ignore, wasn’t it? Just a little more indulgence, just some more nights of carousing and perhaps some rich food to top it off, and Jael would no doubt _blossom_. Those pants would stretch and strain, too, until the seams unraveled and he came bursting out of them, flesh pouring through the gaps, belly spilling forward, ass grown wide and soft and fat fat fat.  
  
Just a little more _spoiling_.  
  
And it didn’t matter that Dorian couldn’t figure out why he was so desperate to see his friend be pampered that way, but in this moment, he was already vowing to fight whatever battles he had to in order to see it done.


	7. Chapter 7

Dorian burst through Bull’s door without bothering to knock. Even so, Bull barely lifted a brow—he didn’t seem surprised at all by the sudden intrusion, which would have annoyed Dorian to no end if he wasn’t already so worked up.  
  
“Remember when I said I was joking about kidnapping the Inquisitor?” Dorian demanded, slamming the door shut behind him. “Well, I take every word of it back. I am not joking. We _are_ doing this. Somehow, some way, we will…” He paused, stopping with his hands on his hips, glaring at his lover. “Why are you smiling like that? I am serious. This place has sucked every ounce of joy out of Jael and I will not stand by and watch it continue.”  
  
“Figured you’d come to that point eventually,” Bull agreed, reaching for a messy pile of papers stacked haphazardly beneath a shard of dawnstone. “I’ve already been talking to Josephine. Turns out, things are at a point with the Inquisition that it’s more politics than anything else. She doesn’t see any reason why the boss couldn’t go on extended leave.” He lifted his brow at Dorian’s surprised look. “A _real long_ extended leave. Kid needs a vacation, and it turns out pretty much everyone agrees.”  
  
Oh. Well. That took quite a bit of wind out of his sails and certainly changed things for the better. “All right,” Dorian said thoughtfully, moving to sit next to Bull on the bed. “Well. Good. So we won’t have to spirit him away under the dead of night. Now all we need is a place to—”  
  
He cut off when Bull silently handed over the sheaf of papers.  
  
It was mostly legal terms, but he was familiar enough with such things to be able to scan quickly and get the gist. And the gist was…pretty astounding, actually. “You bought a _villa_?”  
  
Bull grinned. “Turns out when you save Orlais, a few Orlesians actually give enough fucks to rub together. Found this nice little villa out in the middle of nowhere and bought it for a song. Quaint countryside sort of vibe. Lots of sunlight, lots of nature, lots of pastoral bliss. Exactly the kind of place to go if you want to let down your hair and worry about nothing but yourself for a change.”  
  
“To indulge,” Dorian said quietly, thinking about what Jael had confessed. _I always used to be envious of those spoiled human men who never had to worry about anything but their own pleasure._  
  
“To be pampered,” Bull agreed, because of course he’d probably known what this was all about from the very beginning. The way he saw people—saw right to the heart of them—was incredible. “To relax. To just…_be_.”  
  
That sounded perfect, and not just for Jael. When was the last time Dorian himself had felt relaxed? When was the last time he’d felt like he could just be himself with no one passing judgment? Years, maybe. Longer. “How long will it take to get ready?” he asked. “_If_ Jael agrees.”  
  
“Oh, he’ll agree,” Bull said, so self-assured that Dorian felt obligated to elbow the insufferable ass in the side. “As for the rest, we could get going within a day, two at most. I have a sense of the sort of things we’d need.”  
  
He wanted to ask about that, suspicions raised, but it all seemed too perfect to protest. And even though Dorian supposed he should be preparing for his _own_ journey back to Tevinter, well…there were more pressing matters now. He couldn’t leave Jael behind and let his friend descend back into his drab little shell. “All right,” Dorian said, handing the deed to their very own Orlesian villa back to Bull. He stood, ready to chase Jael down and absolutely pester him until he agreed. Even if it was only for a month, Maker, the kind of healing that amount of time could do.  
  
He needed this. They all needed this.  
  
“I’ll go convince the Inquisitor. You see to the supplies.” He gave his lover a smacking kiss, then whirled toward the door, ready to see this through.  
  
But he paused after three steps and turned back. “Oh, and Bull?”  
  
Bull looked up, brows arched, waiting.  
  
Dorian tilted his head. “Do whatever you can to make this trip as indulgent as possible. After what Jael has done for all of us?” He smiled, refusing to let himself think of indolently soft flesh draped in silk and jewels. “He deserves to be utterly spoiled for a time, I think.”


	8. Chapter 8

Jael wasn’t convinced this all wasn’t some elaborate dream until they crested the final hill and the villa came into view.  
  
“Whoa,” Bull said, tugging on the reins of his massive warhorse. He glanced at Jael, one corner of his mouth pulling into a knowing smirk: the _yeah, it’s the shit, right? _so clear on his face that Jael almost laughed.  
  
It was a surprisingly near thing. He’d been on the verge of laughter for days now, the entire trek across the Frostbacks and into Orlais making him feel lighter and lighter inside. Every hour that passed without someone intercepting their small party and dragging him back to Skyhold was a minor miracle, and now…  
  
Now _this_.  
  
“It’s beautiful,” Jael said, taking in the rolling green hills, the shady trees, the bone-white columns and cobalt shutters and utter _perfection_ of it all. This sprawling estate was exactly what he used to picture when he was curled up in his cot at night, hunger pangs keeping him awake. Even from a distance, he could hear the soft music of fountains and the gentle sway of the wind through leaves. He could feel the tension uncoiling inside him.  
  
This was really happening. After all this time, this could finally be his.  
  
“It’s home,” Bull said simply, and Dorian let his mare dance closer—let their legs brush. The incidental touch didn’t mean the same thing to Dorian as it did to Jael, but he was grateful for it anyway. He was grateful for all of this.  
  
Jael took a steadying breath and let his shoulders relax. He smiled—really _smiled_—at Bull and Dorian, trying to let them see just how much this little escape meant to him. “Then let’s go home,” he said, and dug his heels into his stallion’s flanks. The horse lurched forward smooth as the wind, and Jael let the anticipation carry him down through the valley and up to his new front door.  
  
Up close, the villa was just as beautiful as it was from a distance. More so, even: as he swung his leg over his horse’s saddle, he could smell the mingled scents of jasmine and oranges. The line of trees stretching from the engraved front door hung pregnant with fruit, and an elaborate mosaic path of whites and blues and golds wove between twin standing pools. The shrubbery had been trimmed back and the grass was soft enough to be a pillow. Every tree left an invitingly shady spot just waiting for a heretofore unheard-of lazy afternoon.  
  
Jael turned toward the door, letting his fingers graze across the old cedar, and pushed it open. The welcoming hall was also tiled mosaic, with high ceilings and whitewashed walls. White curtains blew in with the breeze, cooling the air.  
  
The foyer branched off into three directions, and Jael absently explored even as Dorian and Bull dealt with stabling the horses and unpacking their supplies. He probably should have been ashamed of leaving the work for them, but he was so utterly struck by his new home that he couldn’t wait a moment to see more. The main room had massive windows, the fluttering white curtains and low, cushy furniture making it seem unbearably comfortable. Everything was beautifully carved; every fabric was richly hewn and soft to the touch. He snagged one of the silk pillows and held it to his chest as he prowled through washrooms and bedrooms and a library and a study and a kitchen and a larder and a wine room and surprise after surprise after surprise.  
  
Finally, Jael found himself out on the back patio overlooking the expansive garden. It was simple but beautiful, grape arbors arching to keep everything shady. A fountain stood in the center of a huge, shallow pool of water stretching out toward the sunlight and back. He could already feel it cool against his skin.  
  
_This_, he thought, staring out across the rolling hills, _is how all those rich human men growing up used to feel. And now it’s mine._There were no words to encapsulate how that felt.  
  
Soft fingers brushed his spine, drawing Jael back to the present. He turned, offering Bull another increasingly-easy smile. “It’s perfect,” he said, meaning it.  
  
“Yup,” Bull agreed easily. He plucked the pillow from Jael’s hands and pushed a small bag in its place, one brow dancing playfully. “But you don’t look the part just yet. Go on and get cleaned up, boss. Put on your new clothes. I’ll have food ready by the time Dorian’s finished oiling his mustache back into place.”  
  
“I heard that!” Dorian called from just inside the door, and the wink Bull cast Jael made him want to laugh. Instead he nodded and went to go find what was obviously meant to be his room. The ceilings were high, arched windows letting in plenty of light and French doors opening onto his own personal patio. A huge four-poster bed stood sentry at the center of the room, directly below a large skylight. The bed was low to the ground and big enough for four, with piles and piles of white silk pillows. An old mirror hung facing it, and when Jael caught his reflection (dirty from traveling and visibly road-weary), he got the dissonant sense that he wasn’t supposed to be here.  
  
This wasn’t the place for hard-scrabble elves like him. This was the kind of palace only the wealthiest, most important men in the realm could ever hope to own.  
  
He caught his eyes, serious brows drawn down into a frown. Faint green light emanated from his closed fist.  
  
“This is yours now,” he told himself, quiet, fierce. “For as long as you can have it.”  
  
Then, deliberately, he set his bag aside and began to disrobe, keeping his eyes on his reflection—feeling defiant. Off went the boots, the rough hose, the leather armor and the simple shirt. He hooked his thumbs in his underclothes and pushed them down his hips, flagrantly naked. Jael almost leaned forward to pick up his own clothes, but he paused mid-movement, then straightened and lifted his chin, staring himself down in the mirror. For now, at least, he was _lord of the manor_, right?  
  
Well, he planned on acting like it. At least for this first day.  
  
Shoulders back, he scanned the room, looking for the tub hidden behind some privacy screen. When it didn’t become apparent immediately, he started opening doors and checking in closets…until he happened to glance out the French door and realized there was a small pool—a small _garden bath_—out there waiting for him.  
  
He only hesitated a moment, the idea of bathing outside where anyone could see so unexpectedly unsettling (and exciting) that it gave him pause. But then…who was there who could see him, other than Dorian and Bull and perhaps a small handful of servants? The eyes of the Inquisition were no longer on him; he could truly do _whatever he wanted_.  
  
Jael let out a puff of breath, the reality of that crashing over him as he pushed open the French doors and stepped out into the fresh air, brazenly naked. The spring breeze felt cool against his skin, and the sun filtering through the arching branches warm. The private patio did have grapevine-laced latticework stretching on either side for a nod toward privacy, but it opened up to show the entire valley before him, mountains rising in the distance. The same mosaic tiles led down into three steps sinking into a smaller pool that rested mid-thigh toward the shallow end and, it looked, chin-height at its depths. Jael dipped his toes in and shivered at the cool water, then slowly began to walk in, aware of his nudity, his body, his _self_ in a way he hadn’t been in years.  
  
A cake of scented soap waited for him, and his nipples pebbled tight as he dragged it over his flesh—over his arms, his chest, and down the slope of his belly. He spent a little extra time there, rubbing soap-lathered hands over the ample flesh he was still adjusting to, thinking of the way everyone in Skyhold had watched him slowly bloat up with _indulgences_ and whispered venom.  
  
_A fat elf. A fat Inquisitor_. _Look at how he’s gone to pot._  
  
Here, there was no one but himself to enjoy the slow, _sinful_ sensuality: fingers digging into the subtle swell, enjoying the rounded shape, taking pleasure in this bit of a softness in a life that had always been hard. On a whim, Jael took a deep breath and forced his belly outward, filling his hands. He turned from side to side, admiring its wide dome rising heavily from his body. There were human nobles who sometimes came to the alienage—fat and dissolute and having everything while Jael had nothing.  
  
Now, they were probably all dead thanks to rifts opening everywhere. Or maybe alive and destitute, plush bodies wilted with need. And Jael was here, feeling plump and happy and in want of nothing for the first time in his life.  
  
He gave the exaggerated heft of his belly one final pat before letting out his breath and letting it deflate back to its more modest pot. It still felt bigger than anything he could have ever imagined gaining before, but now that he had the whole spring and summer and maybe even _more_ of laziness spreading out before him…he found himself wondering if maybe he could find it in himself to imagine a time when he could give in to the secret thrill he always felt whenever he caught sight of himself in a mirror. Of the excitement he felt touching that subtle bulge and wondering what it would be like to be _bigger_.  
  
It was a secret he’d never shared with anyone, his desire to be like those fat human men. He’d honestly never even thought his body could even _do_ that. But now…  
  
Jael rubbed a hand down the slope of his flesh, deliberately rounding out his little potbelly again—imagining what it might be like if he just let himself go for the span of this summer. What would Bull think? What would Dorian think? How would they look at him if he truly let himself give in?  
  
Maker. He shouldn’t even be thinking like this.  
  
“Stop it,” he told himself firmly, questions and restless desires swirling inside him, and refocused on finishing his bath instead. There was no point in even dreaming; it wasn’t ever going to happen.


	9. Chapter 9

It turned out Bull and Dorian were set on spoiling him rotten.  
  
After his bath, Jael dried off and dug into the bag to find his new clothes: ridiculously rich, silken robes that opened at the chest and skimmed his hips. The robe was a jewel tone and trimmed with golden thread. It was so soft and unexpectedly sensual against his skin that he could feel his body reacting, cock gone semi-stiff and nipples _tight_ at each errant brush.  
  
Bull, of course, being Bull, hadn’t thought to pack any smallclothes.  
  
Jael stood at his door for a long minute after dressing, smelling mouthwatering food cooking and wanting to go out into the main room, but hesitating. He felt all but naked, wet hair coiling in loose curls around his shoulders, robe gaping open to reveal his chest and part of his stomach. The golden sash tied low around his hips, resting beneath the bulge of his small gut, making him feel heftier than he was. _Exposed_…but not necessarily in a bad way.  
  
Which was of course part of the problem. Bull and Dorian hadn’t agreed to be part of his little perversion.  
  
He shifted awkwardly, silk brushing against bare skin, all of him keyed up. Then he let out a cleansing breath, dragged his robe closed so it wasn’t exposing quite so much softening flesh, and pushed the door open—forcing himself to walk out to join Bull and Dorian for their meal.  
  
Dorian was sprawled on a low dining couch, one leg folded under him, a hand resting on his own flat belly. He looked right at home in a similar richly-colored robe, his fingers flashing with rings. Bull wore the same pantaloons as always, only in some loose white linen. He was barefoot and laughing as he laid platter after platter after…oh goodness…platter of food out onto the low table surrounded by heavenly-looking couches. A familiar-looking jug sat next to a waiting goblet.  
  
Jael slowed as his two friends turned their heads to look at him. He was obscenely aware of Bull eyeing him with approval, and just as deeply disappointed when Dorian quickly looked away.  
  
_Damn_. This torch he was carrying for his best friend was increasingly difficult to bear.  
  
“What army are we feeding?” Jael asked, coming around the end of one of the low couches and sliding into place. He sank into heavenly soft pillows, his body naturally adopting a reclining pose even as he tried to subtly make sure his robe was fully closed. Were they really meant to eat like this?  
  
“No army,” Bull said, laying out the final dish. He crowded in next to Dorian on his low couch, the furniture groaning in protest under their combined weight. “It’s all for you.”  
  
Jael gave a startled noise, sitting up. He had to have misheard that. “Excuse me?” he asked.  
  
“Bull,” Dorian warned, casting him a sharp look, but Bull just shrugged it off, as if he hadn’t said anything odd at all.  
  
“Even between the three of us, we couldn’t _possibly_,” Jael began, only to snap his mouth shut (sharp enough, sudden enough, that he nearly bit his own tongue) when Bull leaned forward—over Dorian—and slid one huge hand past the little gape in Jael’s robe.  
  
His palm was rough with callouses yet incredibly gentle as Bull deliberately cupped the swell of Jael’s belly, giving its firm, round shape a little squeeze. “Might as well cut to the chase and spare us all weeks or months of dithering,” he said with a broad wink, thumb dipping against Jael’s belly button. Dorian had gone stock still, startled eyes locked on Bull. For his part, Jael was…  
  
He had no idea what he was. He knew he should knock Bull’s hand away and demand an explanation, an apology. But the touch—the warmth—the _transgression_ of one his most beloved friends cupping the swell of his gut and giving it a deliberate heft (as if _weighing it_ thoughtfully) was so shocking and so unexpected and so damn _hot_ he couldn’t move. It was as if Bull had read his mind, diving deep into fantasies Jael wasn’t fully prepared to admit to himself he had.  
  
His robe was spread open, his dissolute body was exposed, and Bull was touching him. More, Dorian was now witnessing Bull touching him—was witnessing just how far Jael had let himself go in such a short time, belly slowly expanding with each mouthful of drink until he couldn’t even squeeze into his armor anymore.  
  
Shameful, _shameful_ excess. A spoiled, rich, fat little prince on his throne—his man-at-arms dragging all their attention down to just how round he was getting. A fantasy come to life.  
  
Maker, it was hot.  
  
“What are you doing, Bull?” Dorian demanded, voice tight.  
  
“What he wants me to do,” Bull answered simply—and he smacked Jael’s belly lightly, teasingly, looking pleased when it gave the faintest jiggle. “Like I said, we could dance around this: or we could admit that what you need is someone willing to spoil you rotten for a while. Let you laze in, dress you in fine things, encourage you to drink too much, eat too much…and admire the fuck out of your growing body while it happens.” He gave Jael’s belly one last, appreciative rub before letting go and sitting back, as relaxed and loose-limbed as if he wasn’t hurling fireballs into Jael’s ordered world.  
  
Dorian sat stock-still, cheeks flushed. For once, he seemed unable to think of something to say.  
  
Jael could relate. His tongue was all but glued to the roof of his mouth.  
  
“You like it,” Bull said, as if stating the obvious. “You like how it feels, and you want more. I want to give you more. Not the sex stuff—though, hey, if you ask nice…”  
  
“_Bull_,” Dorian hissed, flush deepening.  
  
Bull kept going. “But something more important for you, I’m betting. Someone to feed you nice things and rub oils into your swelling flesh and make you feel pampered in every way possible.” He leaned in to snag the jug of qunari ale—the powerful swill that had packed such a prodigious beer gut on Jael in such a short time—and poured him a brimming goblet-full. Far, _far_ more than he’d usually drink in one go before. “Someone who doesn’t mind if you let yourself go just as much as you need. Heh,” he added, “someone who _likes_ it. I want to see you drink that whole thing,” he added, nodding to the goblet. “And then I want to see you start eating. And eating. And eating. And I don’t want you to stop stuffing your pretty face until you’re so full you feel like you’re going to pop.”  
  
“Bull,” Dorian said _again_, though this time there was a different note to his voice. He cleared his throat, hands clasped between his legs, looking strangely flustered and out of sorts and excited and _scared_.  
  
Maker, but Jael could relate to that too. He had no idea what to make of all this. He knew he should say no, but what Bull was offering…ordering?...no, definitely _offering_, sounded amazing. It sounded like everything he did secretly want. He even liked the idea of being pushed a little into it. It seemed like Bull was offering to at turns nearly worship him, spoil him, indulge him…and then turn around and make him go farther: the attention-starved Alienage brat inside of him practically purred at the thought.  
  
Which meant…he was considering it, right? Seriously considering?  
  
“So say I do want what you’re suggesting,” Jael said slowly. Dorian’s dark eyes darted immediately to his face, then away just as quickly. “What if I want to just wallow in this and…and get fat.” _Fat and happy_. Wasn’t that the saying? “What do you get out of this?”  
  
“I’m good at knowing what people want,” Bull said with a broad, wicked smile. “And I enjoy the hell out of giving it to them. Whether its tying them up with silken rope and bouncing them off my dick,” Dorian made a strangled noise at that, which, _wow, okay, “_or pushing them back against feather pillows and filling their bellies with all kinds of good things. You want to grow,” he added simply. “You’ve secretly always wanted the big, pillowy body of a lordling. I want to help you get there. I want to help you get fatter than you ever dreamed. And as for Dorian—well, h’s here because he’s nice for both of us to look at.”  
  
That was true enough.  
  
Jael considered him—considered both of them—for a long, long minute. His robe was still open, his stomach pooched forward and exposed, his cock…well, he was all kinds of interested despite himself. Bull had to know that too, but he didn’t make a thing out of it, so Jael didn’t either. Finally he asked, “If I agreed, how fat would you want to make me?”  
  
“Depends,” Bull said, snagging one of the plates and balancing it on his huge hand. “How fat do you think you can get?”  
  
“That sounds an awful lot like a challenge,” Jael pointed out, which was his way of saying: _give me everything. Make me soft. Make me a hedonist. Spoil me rotten._  
  
Bull laughed. “Who said it wasn’t? Drink,” he added, nodding to the glass of qunari ale. “That’ll get you nice and round—nice and _rounder_—in no time. We can build off of that. Every piece of art needs a good foundation.” He leaned closer, watching Jael with an intensity that had him flustered and reaching for the flagon without question, bringing it eagerly to his mouth. “We’re going to treat you right, boss. And if there’s ever anything you don’t like, or if the game ever goes too far, all you have to do is say _katoh_, and it’ll stop. Can you repeat that back to me? What do you say if you want this to stop?”  
  
Jael swallowed, then deeper, so excited to get started he could barely handle it. But he lowered the mug enough to murmur, “Katoh,” memorizing the word—and the way both Dorian and Bull looked at him. He could feel things shifting around them, but he could only guess at the strange ways this new game might take them.  
  
So, in the spirit of adventure that had led him this far, Jael leaned back against the couch, deliberately arching his back so his little belly rounded forward, signaling he was ready to begin. He swiped his tongue out, licking rich qunari ale off his bottom lip. “So,” Jael murmured, trying for a husky purr. It was shocking how easy it was to let go and let that hidden part of him take over. _At least for the summer_, he assured himself. And really, how bad could it get in one summer? He could always lose whatever their encouragement helped him gain before the Inquisition needed him to be their figurehead again. “What’s a growing elf have to do to get fed around here?”


	10. Chapter 10

He felt like he was going to burst.  
  
Jael leaned back amongst the cushions, breathing deeply through his nose, trying to focus past the delicious pain in his stomach. His tongue still tasted of sweet things, a sticky path dripping down his parted lips, his chin.  
  
Maker. If he wasn’t careful, one of these days he really would pop.  
  
The cushions sank as Bull slid onto the couch next to him, furniture creaking a faint warning. Jael didn’t have to peek open his eyes to know the other man was grinning smugly.  
  
“Look at you,” Bull rumbled, sounding pleased. In a days—a week?—since they’d arrived at the villa, he’d been nothing but glowingly smug. It would have been annoying if Bull wasn’t so damn good at making Jael _feel_ so damn good. “Pushing past every boundary like the little dathrasi you are.” One massive hand came down to cup Jael’s bare, rounded belly, giving it a soft rub. “You’re starting to get big, boss.”  
  
Jael cracked open sleepy, dazed eyes to watch. Reclined back as far as he was—nearly lost amongst the silken cushions—for a moment, it seemed like all he could see was belly. Stuffed to the point of pain and filled to the brim with enough qunari ale to make the world go pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, he was a mockery of the elven form. Skinny thighs spread wide, arms splayed akimbo, pale gut soaring in a wide dome, swaying gently with every breath. It felt huge—_he_ felt huge—bloated up like a tick and so top-heavy he wasn’t entirely sure he could hoist himself up just yet.  
  
The idea, in his tipsy state, struck Jael as hysterical. Here he was, the leader of the Inquisition, pinned down and helpless by his own prodigious gut.  
  
“Oof,” Jael mumbled, hands twitching up to cup his own bare flesh. “I feel so bloody fat.” His stomach was distended and hard to the touch, with just the smallest bit of fleshy give. Each stuffing left him feeling just a little softer. Before long, if he wasn’t careful, he’d wake from his food daze to find a growing pooch of flab clinging to his body, _quivering_ with each step.  
  
He shivered at the strangely illicit thrill that thought gave him and waved indolently toward the table. His big, pregnant belly wobbled with the motion. “I want more.”  
  
That had been a theme from that very first overindulgence, the night they’d arrived at the villa and Bull had so neatly turned the tables on him. He’d tucked into that meal with a ferocity that scared and excited him, pushing himself past the point of pain as he ate and ate and _ate_, aware of Dorian’s eyes on him, aware of Bull’s low encouragements, aware of the way his small tummy was swelling out with every bite and swallow of rich qunari drink, growing subtly until he’d been forced to give up—collapsing back with a winded sigh, hands massing his gut, feeling absolutely massive.  
  
Funny. Funny how accomplished he’d felt then, only…five? Six?...days ago. A proper glutton.  
  
It was nothing compared to now. Maker take him, he’d have to struggle up onto an elbow to see the bloody table over his own inflated paunch.  
  
Jael gave a choked little laugh, doing just that—just for the pleasure of feeling how difficult it was. He huffed out a breath, shifting to get an arm under him, then an elbow, using it as leverage to push himself a little closer to sitting. His stomach rolled forward like a weighted ball attached to his body, forcing his thighs wider as he hefted himself up. It was even harder than he’d imagined, all of him wanting to just roll back amongst the cushions and accept his fate, but Jael continued to struggle as he pushed his second hand under him, using both to hoist himself forward.  
  
Bull chuckled, watching him with obvious amusement and appreciation. “Getting round there, boss. Look at you: you’re nothing but belly.”  
  
He huffed out a breath, not disagreeing. He certainly _felt_ like a round ball with arms and legs and head attached. The last week had been nothing but a haze of stuffing himself ridiculously full, keeping up a non-stop feast until he barely remembered what it was like to not have his inflated gut bobbing and weaving in front of him. “And whose fault is that?” Jael said dryly. This kind of inflation was unnatural: it had to be the result of that brew Bull seemed determined to pour down his throat. He finally managed to hoist himself the rest of the way up, breathing ridiculously hard as he hunched over, gut resting snug in his lap, keeping his thighs spread wide. “You’ve been feeding me up like a prize pig.”  
  
“Naw,” Bull answered. “We haven’t reached _that_ part yet. Right now we’re getting you good and primed. Getting that body ready for the real show.” He reached down, cupping the weight of Jael, taking some of the pressure off. Funny, but whenever Bull was touching him like this (intimate as a lover’s caress, enough to have him shivering in response) or, Maker, whenever Dorian was so much as _looking at him_ with a strange sort of almost-heat flickering in his eyes…then Jael felt like he could take more, do more, push himself farther, experience so much.  
  
He was drowning in self-indulgence already, every whim tended to, but when those two men were near, Jael felt capable of anything at all.  
  
“Another few days of this and you’ll start to see the changes,” Bull added, thumbing Jael’s tender belly button. “This round gut will start to sag, soften. Your ass will get plush and your thighs soft. Your tits will get big enough to rest against your belly, and everything about you will just get fatter and fatter. Right now you’re all set to roll back to your bed, nothing but belly,” he murmured. “But before long, you’ll be a real dathrasi. A fat little nug with quivering thighs and rolls big enough to bite.”  
  
The low, even cadence of his voice—the wicked words—were enough to make Jael’s body tense. He could feel himself going hard at the idea. Both the image of Bull tipping him over _right now_ and literally rolling him back into his room, as if he was nothing more than a ball of flesh: engorged, bloated, massive. But also the promise of what was waiting for him: plush, soft, dissolute. He rubbed his hands along the smooth skin of his stomach and imagined it gone flabby and hanging. Imagined his straining sides rounding into hills and valleys. Imagined a time when Bull and Dorian would have to grab his hands and hoist him to his feet, his stomach spilling forward in an ocean’s crashing wave, slapping against his jiggling thighs as every inch of him went indolently soft to the touch, fatter than any man he’d ever seen before.  
  
Why did the idea make his cock strain against the heavy underside of his gut? Why did he want Dorian to slide in behind him, taking the heft of his weight within the cradle of his arms, and whisper filthy things in his ear as he ate and ate and ate?  
  
His overstuffed gut rumbled in response, as if begging for _more_.  
  
As if obeying a command, Jael fumbled forward, grabbing for an abandoned pastille. Powdered sugar dusted the table and landed in a soft snowfall across his bare, bloated skin as he lifted it to his mouth and took a bite. Its crunch was ridiculously satisfying, and he cut his eyes to Bull’s as he deliberately chewed and swallowed and bit again, stuffing the pastry into his mouth as if he were in a race.  
  
He supposed he was. A race to that future him he could see so clearly, lounging back and spreading wide across silken sheets.  
  
“That’s it, boss,” Bull said, still rubbing the lower swell of Jael’s belly. His big fingers massaged the tight skin, making room for more. “You know you want to stuff your face. You know you can’t help yourself.”  
  
He was already snagging a second pastille even before he was finished with the first, feeling an odd sort of fever coming over him. It happened sometimes when he was flying high on qunari ale and heavy foods: he felt almost possessed by a need to dive face-first into the hedonism a full table offered him. He wondered what Bull would do if he gave into the impulse one day and just _did_ it—just tipped forward until he was crashing down amongst the silver platters, blindly mouthing at whatever food glopped inelegantly his way: chewing, swallowing, consuming, blowing up bite by bite by bite with his ever-growing stomach streaked in chocolate and sugar.  
  
Jael had dreams like that now. His nights were and endless banquet where desire demons shoved sweets into his waiting mouth and milked his growing tits with flicks on wicked tongues. His days were a strange shadow of those dreams, every bit of him straining, straining…  
  
He swallowed, bit, chewed, swallowed. He rocked forward with each bite, swelling gut swaying. It lightly hit the lip of the table, and he almost did topple forward in his surprise, eyes dropping to the sheer expanse of it, taking in the round heft dotted with fine sugar and crumbs.  
  
There had to be magic involved to get him so big. And if there was—if that was true—just imagine how much _bigger_ he could be.  
  
“More,” Jael murmured, reaching for the next plate. Bull lightly smacked his hand and urged Jael back into a recline, bringing the food to him. He was rising above Jael’s body now, dominating his vision—pressed lightly against the sensitive arc of Jael’s belly as he brought a spoon to his mouth.  
  
Bull didn’t wait for him to chew and swallow before he was already scooping up another spoonful, then another. A small smile touched his face, eye taking in Jael’s responses as he turned the tables the way he was wont to do, feeding him mouthful after mouthful with barely time to breathe between.  
  
One plate was switched out for another. Jael lay sprawled back, hands bracketing his own swelling gut, mouth and throat working. He felt overwhelmed in the best way possible, both forced and encouraged, Bull carefully riding the line between reverence and demand.  
  
_He’s not going to stop_, Jael thought, body sparking at the idea. Maker, it was probably his imagination, but he swore he could _feel_himself getting bigger with each bite. _He’s going to keep going until I’m everything I ever wanted to be._  
  
It should have been so shameful, to have his friend touching him like this, seeing him like this, literally spoon-feeding him his weakness until he bloated up into a useless, _pampered_ lordling, but… But Andraste take him, it felt so _good_. He wanted more of it. He wanted it all.  
  
And Bull, sensing the direction of his thoughts the way he always seemed to do, delicately pushed chocolate past his parted lips and leaned in—putting just enough pressure on his bloated gut to feel the good sort of pain—to whisper in Jael’s ear: “He’s watching us right now, boss. And he’s thinking he doesn’t understand why he finds this so enticing: me, making you this big. Making you ripe and full and _fat_ for him.”  
  
Jael rolled his eyes to the side, straining to see—moaning quietly around the next mouthful; chewing, swallowing, catching the barest glimpse of Dorian standing in the doorway watching.  
  
He was glorious, beautiful, bathed in sunlight and perfect in every way. Muscular and toned and sheer perfection. His lips were parted, eyes dark, a flicker of confusion on his brow as if he wasn’t sure how to process the sight of Bull feeding Jael like this.  
  
Or maybe he was struggling to decide whether he wanted to finally pitch in and help?  
  
_Touch me_, Jael thought, legs spreading unconsciously wider in invitation, hips bucking helplessly up. He was too full to have much momentum, round gut wobbling, body pinned by Bull and his own weight. But oh, oh, _touch me, touch me, touch me._  
  
Bull’s breath was hot against his skin. “That’s right, boss: show him. Show him how you’re so full you’re about to pop,” a rough-gentle hand smacked against his gut, “and still you’re desperate for more.” He _was_ about to pop. He’d never felt so full in his life, everything straining like an overripe fruit, weighed down amongst the pillows and heaving for breath. There was no way he’d be able to get up under his own steam right now, and the helplessness of that sent heat arcing through him. “Show him how much you need him.”  
  
Then, all at once, Bull was pulling away; he stood and set the empty plate aside, staring down at Jael’s swollen, sprawled, gasping form with a visible smirk. “Come on, kadan,” Bull called to Dorian even as he snagged an end of silk to wipe the slop off Jael’s chin. The sensory experience of that was incredible, and Jael moaned when Bull stroked the cool cloth down his chest (across tightening nipples) and over his big, flushed-pink belly. “Boss stuffed himself too full to move. We need to hoist him back to his bed.”  
  
Jael jerked at that, packed belly shuddering at the motion. He felt a lance of exquisite shame, followed by an intense sense of pleasure when Dorian slowly stepped forward, eyes on him.  
  
His robe had long since fallen all the way open, exposing him from collar to nigh-groin. It parted around his body like an opened present, displaying the heavy sway of his gut and the little rolls of fat that had been collecting around his sides. Jael felt framed by it—exposed in the best of ways—sticky-faced and panting as he stared up at the man he wanted most in the world. Fat, fat, Maker he felt so ridiculously _fat_ right now. He was too gravid to move.  
  
“Well,” Dorian said, usually arch voice coming out a little strangled, “in that case, take my hand.”  
  
He reached out, and Jael felt a new wash of mortification-pleasure when he flailed back, uncoordinated. Maker, could he not even manage that? They finally clasped hands, Dorian’s grip firm, his palm warm when he grasped Jael’s arm with his other hand and began to tug.  
  
His belly rose like a mountain above him, previously lithe form ungainly with pregnant roundness. He couldn’t get momentum; even with Dorian’s help, he struggled, and huffed, and crashed back down again with a dramatic wobble.  
  
It took Bull grabbing Jael’s other pistoning arm to hoist him up to his feet, gut spilling forward in a wide dome, so stuffed he couldn’t even see his feet. Jael swayed, legs spreading wide to keep his balance, cock ridiculously hard at how much effort it had taken just to get this far. This shouldn’t have been so erotic, and yet as Bull and Dorian helped him take mincing steps out of the shared room and toward his bedroom (all of him trembling and shaking with each step, the pain of overindulgence churning deep inside him), Jael couldn’t deny the fierce hedonism of this. He was so stuffed, he couldn’t make it back to his own bed alone. He was so round they might as well have dropped him to the ground and rolled him along the hall. That was the kind of rich he could never have imagined back in his childhood, and as he leaned against the weight of his friends—flushed and embarrassed and _jiggling_ subtly and feeling both more helpless and more powerful than ever—Jael couldn’t help but give a small, secretive smile.  
  
Tomorrow, he decided, shuffling forward, packed belly swaying, he would eat even more. And the next day even more. And if Bull was right—and Bull was _always_ right—someday soon, after all that indulence, Dorian would stop watching his growing gut from a careful distance…  
  
And instead lean in to _touch_.


	11. Chapter 11

It was distracting, the way Jael’s body changed seemingly day by day.  
  
No, Dorian decided as he pretended to focus on the book spread wide in his lap, that wasn’t possible. The human (eleven, dwarven, qunari, what-have-you) body was remarkably elastic, true. It changed shape and texture thanks to all sorts of environmental factors. Unrelenting sun eventually lead to leathery skin and fine lines. Unrelenting booze eventually lead to bloated features and a hard, round belly. And unrelenting feasting, well…  
  
He snuck a glance across the courtyard and into the Inquisitor’s private (yet not so private at all) patio, where the elf was sprawled back in his outdoor bath, gloriously naked and unashamed and…  
  
_Fat_.  
  
Dorian bit his bottom lip, subtly watching the interplay of light and shadow over pale skin. Yes, there was no other way to put it: Jael was already officially _fat_, elven leanness a distant memory now. It was strange how quickly it had all happened, like a haste spell cast on his lithe body. First, the rounded gut he’d earned thanks to nights spent with the Chargers, back home. Then the creeping softness at hips and thighs. The subtle gentling of sharp angles. The smudging of a jawline—faint enough that Dorian had to really look to see it.  
  
And now _this._  
  
Jael made a low, contented noise and stretched, his back arching, arms over his head, water sluicing off pale, dimpled skin. For the first few weeks (months? Time was a funny thing once you stopped paying attention to the passing of days) he’d practically been a ball in elven form—Bull kept him so blighted stuffed that he groaned and waddled his way here and there, belly blown up pregnant-wide in front of him. He still stuffed himself like he would never be full, of course, but all that rich food had at some point started to find its way to thighs, hips, arms, tits. _Seeping_ into him and gently rounding him out like rising dough.  
  
_An apt analogy_, Dorian thought, watching that soft, pale belly lift out of the water with Jael’s languid arch. Water streamed across the dimpled dome, and he swore he could see the subtle _jiggle_ of soft, cushiony fat shifting and settling with his movement.  
  
That was Jael now. When he wasn’t stuffed beyond reason—when he hadn’t packed himself so full his stomach was forced round and hard again—he was so bloody _soft_. His once-skinny arse would fill Dorian’s hands now, and sweet rolls were always spilling over the waist of his trousers. His thighs had thickened with a layer of dimpled padding, and his arms were threatening to round out as big as his once-skinny thighs had been before. A little swell of fat rested at his chin, deepening by the day into the promise of a true double chin, and his tits…  
  
Dorian watched, rapt, as those little mounds shifted with Jael’s movement, nipples candy-pink against the swell of soft pastry-white. Maker, he’d be able to cup them in his hands and push them together; thumb the nipples hard as he leaned in to take a bite of his own.  
  
He shifted as Jael relaxed back again, soft body sinking into the water, and fixed his unseeing eyes back on the page. He no longer had any idea what it said, and fuck, but he was hard.  
  
It seemed monumentally unfair that the softer Jael became, the more Dorian wanted to press against all that giving skin and watch it quiver.  
  
A low, husky laugh to his left made Dorian tense. “Don’t start,” he said, cross. He shifted so the book was covering proof of his excitement—not that it would do any good. Bull saw everything. “I’m not in the mood.”  
  
“Yeah?” Bull challenged, coming to drop himself inelegantly into the lounger next to Dorian’s. The gorgeous expanse of countryside opened up before them, golden fields dipping and swelling over rolling hills. A pity he couldn’t seem to appreciate it. “Looks to me like you’re in some kind of mood, all right.”  
  
Dorian shot him a testy look, but Bull just leaned forward and caught his hand, lifting it so he could kiss the knuckles. One big thumb massaged a soothing beat into the middle of his palm, and Dorian reluctantly let himself relax back with a sigh—fixedly ignoring the splash of water nearby.  
  
Bull’s single eye was on him, brow arched. “So tell me, Dorian,” he said conversationally.  
  
Dorian snatched back his hand. “Don’t start,” he warned.  
  
Bull, as usual, ignored him. “What do you get fighting so hard against this? You want it.” His gaze danced down to the unfortunate bulge straining against fine linen; Dorian muttered and pointedly drew up his legs, keeping the book as a shield. “He wants it. _I _want to see your head buried between fat little thighs, fingers digging deep into all that growing flesh.”  
  
_Fuck _but Bull knew how to paint an image: now all Dorian could see was Jael sprawled back against silken bedsheets, tummy softly rising over him in a wobbly dome, hitching with every breath. His fingers would be tangled in his own hair, snarling it as Dorian gripped his ever-widening hips to hold him still, plush thighs bracketing his face and nearly suffocating him in their sweetness.  
  
He could practically feel soft, cool skin. He could taste Jael’s prick as it slid down his throat.  
  
Dorian squirmed.  
  
“See?” Bull laughed, reaching out as if to nudge aside the book and cup Dorian’s privates. Dorian knocked his hand away with a scowl, shooting a quick glance toward the bath to make sure Jael couldn’t overhear any of this. The Inquisitor was still lounging there in perfect contentment, one arm flung back along the marble edge of the pool, the other draped over his stomach, fingers idly rubbing circles into pale flesh. “All of us want it. So what’s the problem?”  
  
It was so infuriating how Bull could know so much and yet understand so little. “Stop thinking with your dick,” Dorian said, bristling. “Or if you can’t, go wave it around over there. I’m sure the Inquisitor would enjoy the show.”  
  
Bull raised an eyebrow. “You jealous, kadan?”  
  
“_No_,” he spat, leaning forward and snapping the book closed. He could feel Jael’s eyes on him from across the patio, and he lowered his voice, hunching around the bitter truth that had been surfacing inside of him more and more of late. “I don’t care if you want to fuck him. Do it. Do it as often as you want. But _I _cannot.”  
  
“Why?” Bull pressed, leaning forward too. His expression morphed from teasing to serious, and Dorian couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d been veering toward this moment from the very beginning. From near a _year_ ago, even. “Wouldn’t hurt anyone if you did. You could even like it.”  
  
He was annoyed enough—agitated enough—that the buzzing arousal inspired by Jael’s soft, fat indolence faded…burned away. He wanted to hit something. (He wanted Bull to drag him over his lap and hit _him_ across the bottom, reminding him of the connection he was fighting so hard to protect.) “Of course I would like it,” he hissed, low. “That isn’t the problem.”  
  
Maker, if it was just about _sex_, it would be so easy. The three of them could topple into that huge bed and not roll out again until they’d been well and truly satisfied.  
  
“Then what’s the problem, Dorian?” Bull replied, placid. Intense, but not rising to Dorian’s bait, his shoulders relaxed, his expression intent. When Dorian hesitated, not wanting to ruin this thing he had with Bull—this thing he’d never thought he’d be able to find once, much less twice—Bull reached out to catch his chin, grip firm but gentle. “Say it,” he said.  
  
…and that’s when Dorian realized: Bull already knew. He knew exactly how Dorian felt. He hew exactly how deep this went—beyond the simple calculus of lust and into something much, much deeper and more dangerous.  
  
_He knows I’m in love with him_, Dorian thought, panicked. It was the first time he’d put the word _love_ to the emotion he felt clawing inside his chest whenever he thought of Jael. He’d been fighting it for what felt like forever, refusing to give name to the emotion lest it destroy his _other_ love for Bull. _With_ Bull.  
  
Because that’s what happened, wasn’t it? When you found out your lover was in love with someone else, you didn’t just shrug and let it happen, and fuck, fuck but Dorian didn’t want his reckless heart to ruin his relationship with the Iron Bull. He was so stupidly happy; he didn’t _need_ to have Jael, too. If he just clamped down on the feelings and refused to let them surface, then everything would be okay.  
  
But Bull was forcing him to meet his gaze, and he wasn’t going to let Dorian go until he said the words that could destroy this thing they had forever. “Say it,” he repeated, gentle.  
  
“Fine. Yes,” he said, giving in. Hating it. “It wouldn’t just be _sex. _It would be—” _So much more._ He shuddered, fiercely angry about the tears hot on his lashes, and batted at Bull’s big hand until his lover let go. “So thank you, but no; I will keep my bloody distance. There,” he added, praying that promise was enough. (_I’ll love him, but only from afar. I will never betray you._) “Are you happy?”  
  
Bull cocked his head, reaching up again, but this time to cup Dorian’s cheek. He brushed a thumb beneath one eye, wiping away the stupid tears before they could fall. “Nah,” he said, and Dorian fought not to flinch. “I won’t be happy until you figure out there’s no harm in having us both.”  
  
And—  
  
And—  
  
What?  
  
“What?” Dorian said, pulling back in surprise. He’d been keeping all this fear and angst bottled up inside for so long that it felt strange to have it spilled out between them. It felt even stranger to realize Bull wasn’t hurt that his kadan had fallen in love with someone else. In fact, Bull was looking at him expectantly, encouragingly, as if he _wanted_ Dorian to be in love with Jael.  
  
As if he wanted…  
  
Dorian shook his head to clear away the clamoring thoughts. He glanced once over his shoulder to make sure Jael couldn’t overhear any of this—he was too far for their low voices to carry, thank the Maker, lolling back and happy—before refocusing on Bull. He leaned forward and poked his lover hard in the chest. “Explain,” Dorian said, clipped.  
  
Bull just grinned. “All this time, you’ve been twisting yourself up over this?” he asked, shaking his big head. “Kadan, you should know me better than that. I’m happy when you’re happy. And you’d be real fucking happy with him.”  
  
“You understand,” Dorian said slowly, “that I’m saying I have feelings for him? Romantic feelings? Feelings that I will not be able to keep under wraps should things become, ah, physical?”  
  
“You got a lotta love to give,” Bull teased back. “I figure you can love me and love him and still have enough left over to love yourself just as much as you always seem to—_hey!_” he protested, laughing and ducking away when Dorian swatted at him. “I’m being serious!”  
  
“You’re being an arse,” Dorian said, but his heart was beating triple-time in his chest. Bull knew, and Bull didn’t mind. Bull seemed to _want_…hm, well, actually, what _did_ Bull want? “Do _you_ love him?” he demanded.  
  
Bull shrugged a shoulder. “Not like that,” he said casually. “Care for the boss a great deal, of course, but it takes me a bit longer to wind up to all that. Maybe someday, but right now mostly I’m interested in his arse.” He gave a soft whistle. “You take a close look at it lately? Like two nugs fighting over an acorn. Once we get him nice and properly _big_, that arse is going to be the stuff of legends. Both hands won’t be able to hold it,” he added, lifting his massive hands as illustration.  
  
The idea, the image, of Jael getting so fat his pale arse overflowed Bull’s warrior hands had a flush creeping up Dorian’s cheeks. He’d be huge, then; pillowy breasts resting on a big, soft belly that fell between round thighs. Hips that dipped and swayed with every step he took. Arms that rippled with flesh and a heavy second chin that Dorian could press in (flush against soft soft soft padded body) and bite.  
  
Heat arced through him at the thought, that strange intense _interest_ in overly bountiful flesh that had haunted him since he was old enough to feel pleasure spiking again. Maker, he could feel his own cheeks heating, and Bull just _grinned_.  
  
“This’ll be good,” Bull decided, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of Dorian’s mouth. “Me and you. You and him. The three of us on that big old bed. The two of us feeding him up nice and fat,” he added with a wink, watching as Dorian squirmed. “You’ll like that, huh? Finally getting to help make Jael _big_.”  
  
_Yeah._ Yeah, he would. He’d been trying to force himself to be content watching Bull coax (and sometimes, with Jael’s consent, _force_) the Inquisitor to eat and eat and eat until he was bloated and groaning, but he’d wanted to help. To shape Jael himself. To watch the way he seemed to blow up in fast-forward, skin stretching and flesh bloating with each day that passed, on his way to being more than just a little fat.  
  
To being…huge. Massive. _Soft_.  
  
Dorian glanced over at the sound of water sluicing, eyes catching on Jael as the other man stood. Rivulets ran across his chubby tits and down the pooch of his belly. It dripped over thighs that were beginning to show the faintest dimples. And when he turned to climb out of the bath, _his arse_, already a handful, and—  
  
Dorian wet his lips, watching, rapt, and noticed the shadow of back rolls for the first time: flesh just beginning to mold into hills on what had always been trim sides, cascading down down into the love handles that were just begging Dorian to reach out and squeeze.  
  
He could do that, Dorian realized with a hitch of his breathing. Now, with Bull’s permission, he could cup those soft folds of flesh and kiss the curve of Jael’s neck and not be afraid of what might happen if they finally let this spark between them flare to life.  
  
Bull was okay with it. Bull wanted it. Bull was letting him have this.  
  
Dorian looked back at his lover, feeling the emotion overflowing inside of him. He pressed forward for a sudden hard kiss, needing to express just how grateful he was.  
  
Bull kissed back, tongue stroking deep into Dorian’s mouth, one hand sliding back to roughly cup his own arse: squeezing before giving it a welcome smack. Dorian shivered, feeling it in his bones.  
  
“Tonight,” Bull murmured, hoarse, “you’re going to help me feed him till he’s about ready to pop. Till his belly’s so swollen up we’re gonna have to roll him down the hall to the bed. And then you’re going to get your hands on him and rub that growing flesh until he’s warm and moaning and helpless under the weight of his gut and his desire. And then…” Bull winked, clearly sensing the way fire was unfolding deep inside Dorian’s belly, his cock already painfully hard—straining—his senses alert. “Then you’re going to kiss him and play with those little tits and hold his belly back as I bring him to pleasure. The two of us, servicing our Inquisitor. Praying to the Herald,” he added with a laugh. “While he just lies there and lets us show him how good he can feel.”  
  
Yes. Yes, he wanted that. He wanted all of that. He was fucking salivating for it, ready to get started _now._  
  
But Bull wasn’t done teasing.  
  
“And in a month? Two months? After we’ve fed him and fucked him silly every night?” Bull leaned forward, intent, whispered voice making Dorian shiver with want. “Just think of how big you’ll have made him. Just think of how thick those tits will big as you bite them, how heavy that belly will be when you lift it, how round and squishy and soft his whole body will become. You’ll have him on his hands and knees, every bit of him quivering with each thrust, stomach brushing the mattress it’s gotten so big, slapping against those dumpling thighs—he’s so fat he can barely roll and waddle out of bed, all thanks to _you_, Dorian.”  
  
“Stop,” he had to say, too unbelievably excited by the idea to let him keep going. Not for the first time, Dorian wished he understood where this perverse desire came from to see trim men—handsome men—blow up with soft layers of cushiony fat. It had been in his head all his life, though Bull (with his modest paunch and meaty pecs) was the biggest man he’d ever let himself fuck.  
  
_Until now_, something inside him whispered, and Dorian had to close his eyes against the building anticipation. He was practically shaking with it. _Until tonight_.  
  
Because if Jael wanted him even half as bad as Dorian wanted Jael? Well. Tonight, he supposed, would be the start of something terrifyingly, wonderfully new. And he really would have a hand in shaping the Herald of Andraste, molding him from whippet-thin elf to something big and _soft_ and indolent: a fat Inquisitor, lounging in his throne.  
  
Maker. He couldn’t wait to get started.


	12. Chapter 12

Dorian paused at the Inquisitor’s doorway, silently working up his nerve. Jael had left the doors to his private patio wide open, gauzy white curtains fluttering with the breeze. The chamber was big and bright and deceptively simple: huge four-poster bed dominating the far wall, expensive mirror stationed across from it, a chest of drawers to one side.  
  
Everything was perfectly beautiful and perfectly elegant—the finest Orlais could offer—and sprawled across the silken bedsheets as if he’d always belonged was _Jael_: basking in the sumptuous indolence this place afforded.  
  
From this angle, he looked like a spoiled prince. (He looked like a cream puff, ever-softening belly rising in a fluffy white mountain above him.) All but naked, the tiny white loincloth nearly lost between the plush fold of his thigh and his growing overhang. He had one arm flung out across the bed, the other draped over his eyes, pale hair a wet halo about his face.  
  
_My my my_, Dorian thought, standing there in the doorway and admiring the delicately bloated shape of his best friend. _Look at how you’ve grown._  
  
It was incredible to think that Jael had once been whippet-thin; a series of sharp, lean lines and angles. Now there was barely an angle left on him. Even his hips had begun to curve out, rolling from his waist to thighs that were made to be spread wide and…  
  
Dorian bit his bottom lip and glanced back, but Bull was nowhere to be seen. Probably looking into the next feast, if precedent had any say.  
  
But Bull didn’t need to be here for this; Bull had already given his permission (his glowing encouragement, even). So, swallowing back the nerves that wanted to have him turning on his heel and running the other way, Dorian slipped into Jael’s bedroom and let himself enjoy the simple-indolent sight of him sprawled there in all his chubby glory.  
  
“You look happy,” Dorian said, keeping his voice pitched low so as not to startle Jael.  
  
Jael just hummed agreement and turned his head to watch him come close. A sweet little fold of fat deepened about his chin when he moved, and the bed dipped subtly beneath his weight. Less subtle was the way his belly jiggled with the movement, wobbly as a boat on rough waters.  
  
He wanted to get his hands on all that pale skin.  
  
He wanted to _squeeze_.  
  
Dorian drifted to the edge of the bed, eyes dropping down Jael’s sprawled body before sliding up again to meet his eyes, for once not keeping any of what he was feeling off his face. There was a question there—a spark of hope that Dorian had been deliberately ignoring for what felt like too long now—but his throat was far too dry to give answer. This was the moment where things _changed_for them, he knew; this was the tipping point where they slid from the closest of friends to something more. Something deeper and more terrifying and—  
  
—and _hot._ Maker take his hide, but Jael was certainly that, at the very least. And the bigger he grew, the hotter he became.  
  
Letting out an unsteady puff of breath, Dorian leaned against the mattress, letting its edge cut against his upper thighs, and deliberately dropped a spread palm against the buttery-soft give of Jael’s tummy. Unstuffed, it was plump and giving, easy to squeeze and mold between his fingers: made for playing with.  
  
Jael gave a sharp little gasp at the touch, arching instantly into Dorian’s hand. His chubby thighs parted, hips rucking upward, soft fat quivering. A deep red blush broke across his cheeks and spilled down his neck and across his upper chest, straining toward the softened mounds of his breasts. Pink-tipped and now tinged with that sweet blush, they looked good enough to lick, to _bite_, to suck dark marks into, and Dorian met Jael’s eyes with an unsteady breath, giving his stomach a deliberate wobble.  
  
_Let me have this with you_, he tried to telegraph in one look, beringed thumb hooking into the deepened divot of Jael’s belly button so he could palm the roundest part of him in one hand even as he pressed the other against the mattress next to one deeply flushed cheek. _Open wide and let me in._  
  
He probably should have said something—Bull would have, by now—but none of the words tripping through his mind felt right. He _loved_ this elf: absolutely, ridiculously, completely. Just as much as he loved Bull. And he _wanted_ him. He wanted to bury himself against soft, giving skin and feed on Jael’s tongue; he wanted fat thighs to wrap around his hips. He wanted to push sugary treats into his greedy mouth and watch him grow.  
  
He wanted years and years together, Tevinter be damned, and void take him but this was temptation no Desire demon had ever managed to muster.  
  
Breathing hard—each staccato drag an exact echo of Jael’s—Dorian leaned forward until he could taste the excited puff of Jael’s breath. It was hot against his cheeks, _sweet_, and Dorian tried to let everything he was feeling show on his face as he rested his weight on one arm and captured the Inquisitor’s mouth in an exploratory kiss.  
  
Jael’s lips parted on a soft noise, welcoming the slick stroke of Dorian’s tongue. It was…fuck, exquisite, Jael’s breath hitching—his belly expanding with air, overflowing Dorian’s hand like he was fattening up beneath him even now—his body straining up in welcome. His own tongue brushed Dorian’s with a wet sound that was almost obscene, urging him to deepen the kiss: wanting _more_.  
  
“Greedy,” Dorian murmured into the kiss, smiling even as he thrust deeper, rising one leg up to rest his weight against the mattress.  
  
Jael hummed another noise of easy agreement, chubby arms sliding around Dorian’s neck. He dragged him closer, tugging him across the mattress and toward the feast of his near-naked body; _quivering_ with every movement.  
  
Venhedis, how much better would it be when he was even _bigger_? When the swell of his stomach was a heavy bulge of fat rolled over another huge apron of the same, resting on thick thighs? When every movement was telegraphed over the topography of his skin, rippling in response?  
  
The image burned in his mind, made him growl and press himself forward. He allowed Jael to tug him over and down, _onto_ the plush pillow of his body. Dorian was forced to let go of Jael’s belly with the move, but he caught onto his round hips instead, dragging his pelvis up even as Jael’s thighs eagerly parted. The kiss had gone wild by now, panting breaths lost in a scalding hot tangle of tongues, and it was all he could do not to thrust down into the soft soft _soft_ cradle of Jael’s welcoming body. He could feel the roundness of his gut contrasted with the hard jut of his cock just below, and my but there were so many filthy things Dorian wanted to do to him.  
  
But first…  
  
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Dorian gasped, breaking the kiss. He mouthed his way down a rounded jaw to Jael’s neck, tongue and teeth worrying at the pale skin there. His fingers dug spasmodically into the soft rolls at his sides. “Sorry I didn’t do this a bloody long time ago.”  
  
“Just shut up and do it now, Dorian,” Jael finally spoke, voice strained. He tunneled his fingers through Dorian’s hair, arching up helplessly against him. Just like in Dorian’s imagination, those chubby thighs spread and wrapped around his own trim hips, trapping Dorian within Jael’s embrace. If Bull were here, pressing down on the other side—draped across his back and rubbing his dripping cockhead along the exposed line of Dorian’s arse—it would be almost too good to handle.  
  
(He wanted to handle it _immediately_.)  
  
Dorian let his teeth drag over Jael’s clavicle before kissing up again—over his cheek, across his temple, and up to one tapered ear. He slid the tip of his tongue along the delicate whorl of his ear, laving up until he could take the tip into his mouth. Jael was wonderfully responsive, shuddering and quaking beneath him: all of him flushed a cherry red as he ground his hips with increasing impatience against Dorian’s.  
  
“Dorian,” he said, breathless, straining. “Dorian. _Dorian. _Touch me.”  
  
“Maker, but you are a demanding, spoiled little thing,” Dorian said with a laugh. His heart was so full it felt like he might burst. “It’s what I love most about you.”  
  
Jael stilled at that, the urgent demand of his tugging hands pausing, and Dorian realized exactly what he’d said. He hadn’t meant it to come spilling out like that: he’d figured, at the very least, he’d save his confession for pillow talk, after they’d rode out the desperation of what felt like years of pent-up longing. And yet, the words had come _so_ easily it was a wonder they hadn’t escaped before.  
  
Sheepish, Dorian pushed himself up onto one elbow to better look down at Jael. Jael let him go, plump legs loosening their hold, eyes wide with shock.  
  
The shock almost made Dorian angry. Did Jael just assume Dorian had decided to ignore the obvious emotion constantly thrumming between them and, what, give in to some physical itch? Use his body like some masturbatory aid?  
  
And yet that flare of near-anger almost instantly faded at the _hope_ that broke across the other man’s face just seconds later, as the meaning behind Dorian’s unintended confession became clear. _Yes,_ he thought, cupping Jael’s cheek and refusing to look away. Refusing to let either one of them back up from this moment of connection and understanding. _Yes, I do. I love you. And you love me._  
  
Jael’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip. “You,” he began, voice hoarse, then shook his head. Tried again. “What about Bull?”  
  
Dorian stroked his thumb across Jael’s cheek. “I’ll let Bull explain his rather unorthodox views of how love can be split and shared,” he said. “But needless to say, he approves of the situation. And he very likely will want to join us tonight, if you’re willing.”  
  
“More than willing,” Jael said immediately. He sat up slowly—giving Dorian time to sit back on his heels, not far away—and it was impossible not to glance down and witness the way his gut pooched out with the movement, rolling forward into his lap. It wasn’t quite big enough (yet) to hide the still-obvious proof of Jael’s excitement, but its gentle rolls upon rolls (not to mention the way his chest plumped up now that he wasn’t lying on his back, just big enough to be called tits) made it clear that it was only a matter of time.  
  
Maker, but he looked so _fat_ from this angle. Insane to realize that half a year ago, he was like every other elf Dorian had ever seen.  
  
Dorian looked up, aware that Jael was taking in Dorian taking _him_ in. Another flush worked its way up round, pale cheeks. “Um. But is this going to be a problem for you?” He reached down to cup his own belly, giving it a deliberate shake. It _trembled_ in response, every bit of him jiggling. “I know Bull has certain…tastes. He hasn’t been shy exploring them with me. But, ah, you might not… That is, I wasn’t sure if you’d want…”  
  
He squirmed, flushing dark—the _Herald of Andraste_ torn with uncertainty. It was almost too much to consider.  
  
Instead of answering, Dorian reached out and gently batted Jael’s hand away. Once freed, he cupped the rounded belly in his own two hands, deliberately lifting it—weighing it, _squeezing_ it, letting it tremble and drop onto chunky thighs. He leaned in, swallowing Jael’s surprised groan, and pushed him back against the mattress again with his fingers digging into the soft give of fat, willing it to expand, to grow, beneath his palms.  
  
He pushed his tongue into Jael’s willing mouth, hot and dirty, even as his hands slid down—down—spreading pudgy thighs wide before sliding his arms _under_ his hips and lifting.  
  
Jael made a startled noise, breaking the kiss as he was dragged against the mattress, hips lifting up under Dorian’s strength, big arse exposed when his meager loincloth fluttered away. It was the perfect double-handful, just big enough that it threatened to overflow his palms, and the roundness of his thighs was every bit as sweet as Dorian had dreamed.  
  
He leaned in and pressed a hard, sucking kiss to one exposed thigh, ignoring the jump of Jael’s cock so close to his cheek. “I love you like this,” he said, voice dark and rough. “I’m going to help Bull feed you so much. I’m going to make you so fat. I’m going to watch that belly grow—and grow—and grow until you need me to help lift it off your thighs so you can crawl out of our bed.”  
  
He sucked another dark mark into quivering skin, grinning at the high, sharp noise Jael’s made. His cock was straining _hard_against the front of those ridiculously small smallclothes, and from this angle—Jael’s hips high off the mattress, his weight resting on his shoulder blades—he was almost nothing but belly. It rose and fell in bellows-deep breaths, and Dorian couldn’t help but hook his arms all the way around Jael’s fat thighs and let his hands cup the rounding shape.  
  
Shake it a little.  
  
Watch it ripple.  
  
He bit soft skin—gently!—and murmured, “You are going to be the fattest elf that ever lived, amatus. You will be on your hands and knees for me, taking me deep inside you, your hanging belly rubbing against the sheets as I thrust.”  
  
“_Spirits_,” Jael moaned, hands stretching out to grab at the sheets and hold on tight. He was pushing up again, thrusting into thin air, completely at Dorian’s mercy. “Ah, spirits, Dorian, yes.”  
  
The image was so deliciously erotic that Dorian was tempted to reach down and cup himself; he was so hard it was starting to hurt, but he wanted to keep his hands where they were. He wanted to be holding Jael just like this when he came for the first time, molding him between his fingers the way Bull’s sweet food and qunari ale was molding Jael’s flesh every day: swelling it bigger and bigger, like the elf was a waterskin expanding out with every new pour. How long would it take for him to round out into the fat, spoiled little elf in Dorian’s imagination? How long before he was rolling Jael from hugely round tummy to massive behind—before he had to sit behind him and lift his ponderous gut just so Bull could take his prick into his mouth? How long before those tits were big enough, round enough, that he could press his own cock between them and spurt hot streams against delicately flushing skin?  
  
The ideas, images, were driving him harder and hotter. He turned his face, mouthing the strain of Jael’s cock, tongue pressing against the spreading wet patch where precoma dribbled against thin cloth, and rode out the jiggling jerk and shake of the elf’s chubby body. The ball of his stomach wobbled between Dorian’s palms and his breaths were coming deep and fast, fingers clawing at the sheets. Jael was close, so close—so close to perfect, a fat elf like none other, utterly spoiled and _despoiled_ and wanton and greedy and—  
  
Jael cried out, straining up once last time, hard, before bursting with orgasm. His whole body shook violently, fat thighs clamping down against Dorian’s ears, threatening to suffocate him. “Dorian!” Maker, but it was wonderful hearing his name like that, knowing _he_ had done this. He wanted to _keep_ doing it. He wanted to milk Jael dry, then flip him over onto his tummy and rip away his smallclothes. Wanted to get his fingers slick and drive them into Jael’s body as Bull brought in platter after platter of food; stuffing him so round and gravid as Dorian drove him into orgasm after orgasm after—  
  
“Dorian,” Jael gasped, slowly coming down. His body slumped, suddenly heavy as he no longer balanced his weight back onto his shoulder blades. Blonde hair clung to beautifully flushed skin, and the smell of release was almost as strong as the wafting scent of dinner being cooked. “Maker, Dorian, that was…”  
  
He let the words end on a sigh, and Dorian slowly—slowly—lowered Jael’s hips. Not back to the mattress, but onto his own thighs, keeping Jael’s lower half at an angle. It was so much more fun this way, gravity forcing his belly up and out instead of letting it flatten a bit: he looked utterly piggish like this. Flushed and sweaty and sated and…hungry, no doubt. Ready to be fed from Dorian’s fingers and stuffed into a gravid ball that he could rub his own cock against until Bull’s watchful, approving gaze.  
  
Dorian hummed a pleased breath, his own hips pushing up at the thought. This soft Jael had been wonderful to play with. Now, he wanted to see him bloated up and round as a ball. He wanted everything.  
  
“That was just the beginning,” Dorian said with a cat-like smile. He gave Jael’s stomach a gentle pat as the bedroom door creaked open, the scent of cooked meats and candied fruits undeniable. “Now, amatus, the best part begins.”


	13. Chapter 13

Jael fell back amongst the couch’s silken pillows with a breathless laugh.  
  
“It’s no use,” he said, thighs spreading wide to form a cradle for his stuffed belly, one fat arm flung dramatically over his eyes. When he tipped himself into the soft cushion, he could feel his body settling around him—still alien, like all this weight belonged to someone else and he was just…borrowing it for a time. Wearing this plush, jiggly skin like an expensive robe. “You’re going to have to go on without me. Leave me here; save yourselves.”  
  
He let his other hand fall fetchingly to the wide swath of exposed skin between his rolled-up tunic and pushed-down trousers, knowing exactly the sort of spectacle he was making. If anything, Jael sucked in a breath and pushed his stomach out a bit, letting it swell even further—making him look even more weighted down by his own gluttony.  
  
“I’ll never make it to my feet again,” Jael continued on a sigh, letting his fingertips ghost across the rounded orb of his gut. “You’ve stuffed me too full.”  
  
Dorian clucked his tongue in faux-annoyance, but Bull just laughed. He’d been doing that a lot lately, as the summer months dragged on into long, hazy days and sweaty nights. They all had, the unmatched joy of their new arrangement bubbling up in unexpected ways.  
  
(Like waking up with one of Bull’s big hands resting possessively over the mound of his belly, fingers digging into pliant flesh, and Dorian snuggled up against his plush arse.)  
  
(Or Dorian brushing back his hair as Bull coaxed him into eating another bite, another, _another_, whispering filthy words about how good he was, how fat he was getting, how lazy and indulgent and indolent: a round little princeling gone to pot.)  
  
(Or even better, floating in his huge garden bath, marveling at the feeling of weightlessness compared to the ever-increasing drag of gravity once he was on dry land. Dorian’s chest keeping his head and shoulders propped securely as he leaned in and whispered words of love, moustache tickling Jael’s ear.)  
  
Spoiled princeling. Spirits knew he felt like one. Teasing or not, he really _hadn’t_ been able to climb to his own feet. Bull had fed him what must have been a feast, teasing strokes against his flushed skin distracting from that growing sense of fullness—like a wineskin being filled to bursting, each bite imbibing more and more, making his belly go round and taut—until it was nearly too much. He’d ended the feast panting and moaning, trousers popped open and tunic protesting at the seams…feeling unbearably powerful as loving hands caressed and massaged his soft, giving flesh.  
  
He was, Jael decided, dropping his arm to stare down the length of his body, officially obese. Not just chubby, not just _voluptuous_, but truly fat. He felt it for the first time, too; he felt _big_, like his body was not longer completely his to control.  
  
Beached. Wasn’t that the term? He’d been fed and pampered and cosseted and fed again until he was _beached_ here, heaving against the shore, unable to do more than flop helplessly and wish he could roll himself where he needed to go.  
  
(…spirits, but that was a ridiculously, wonderfully erotic thought. Body bloated up so big and round that he had to be nudged off the couch and onto the floor. Dorian tutting as Bull’s big hands manhandled him, pushing him end over end like a giant ball, bowling him gently away from the decimated feast to his bed. Jael squirmed at the mental image, plush thighs squeezing against the gut pushing them wide.)  
  
“Come on, boss,” Bull said, feigning impatience. He was already in on the game, Jael could tell. That gleam in his eye gave him away every time. “We don’t have all night. Get off your round ass and come to bed.”  
  
“Bull,” Dorian tsked, falling into his own role so easily. He moved around to the back of the couch, hands falling to Jael’s shoulders in comfort. He gave a little squeeze. “Can’t you see he’s _trying?_”  
  
Jael felt the flush painting his cheeks, spreading across his ears and down the exposed bit of fair chest. He deliberately spread his thighs wider, letting his over-stuffed belly settle. Its overhang was getting big enough—especially when he was full, like this, almost incapacitated by his gluttony—that it brushed the couch cushions beneath him. Every time he took a breath, the skin-tight material groaned. Linen strained over the soft rolls at his sides, the plush roundness of his tits, the beginning slope of his globular belly. He deliberately expanded on a deep breath, watching Bull from beneath his lashes as his shirt rolled up another helpless inch.  
  
“I can’t get up,” Jael said on a husky whisper. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was true or not—and the idea that it _might_ be true sent lightning through his blood. “I’m too full.”  
  
“Too full,” Bull echoed, brows raised, “or too fat?”  
  
He bit the inside of his mouth; he was getting hard. “…both,” Jael said, embarrassed and thrilled at once. He leaned hard on that thread of shame, letting it take over his expression. This was all part of the game: the spoiled little lord being taken to task for eating himself into a stupor. The first time he’d popped himself out of his clothes and had been turned over Bull’s knee, fat arse tanned by a carefully stern hand had been a revelation.  
  
Maybe he’d get something similar tonight.  
  
“But I can’t help myself,” Jael added on a faux-whine, reaching down to frame his stomach. He stroked the soft skin, fingertips dancing across the stretch marks raised like vallaslin. “Whenever you put food in front of me, I can’t stop myself from eating it.”  
  
“Are you saying that we’re to blame for your self-indulgence?” Dorian asked as he draped himself across the back of the couch, adding his own spread hands to the soft spill of flesh. He gave Jael’s over-stuffed gut a solid jiggle. “You can’t stop yourself from stuffing your face, so _we’re_ to blame?”  
  
Bull crossed his arms, shaking his head. “You’re a fat little dathrasi, is what you are,” he said. “Rooting and grunting and eating yourself sick. Just look at you.”  
  
Jael squirmed, hips pushing up as Dorian gave him belly another jostle, making flesh ripple. His tunic had ridden all the way up at the gentle abuse, rolled under his tits and exposing the full expanse of his gut. It arced out in front of him, plush yet _round_, soft yet hard under yielding fat—a study in contradictions. “Just look at me,” he breathed, erection pushing hard against the rounded overhang, rubbing up against soft flesh. When he twisted his hips, he could _almost_ thrust up against it; fuck, had he really gotten that big already? When had that happened? “I’m so…I’m _so_…”  
  
“So big,” Dorian murmured in his ear, teeth nipping an earlobe before licking his way down to nibble at Jael’s softened jaw; his double chin.  
  
“Big and lazy and spoiled,” Bull added. He leaned forward, swatting at Jael’s belly. The sting of it was minimal, but the sound of skin smacking skin was enough to make Jael yelp. “Stop that. If you want to feel good tonight, boss, you’re going to have to haul yourself up and make it to the bed. We’re not encouraging your laziness tonight.”  
  
He whined low in the back of his throat. “But the bed’s so far,” Jael said—playing along, but also legitimately wondering if he’d be able to make it right now. He certainly felt weighted down here, as if he’d swallowed a gravity well instead of a king’s feast of rich food and wine. “Help me.” He held out a chubby hand.  
  
Bull just snorted and backed away, deliberately out of reach. “Nope,” he said. “You’re going to grunt and struggle your way up; maybe then it’ll finally sink in just how far you’ve ruined yourself. Let him go, Dorian,” he added.  
  
Dorian sighed, sucking a mark against soft skin, his clever fingers cupping Jael’s breasts and pinching the nipples just tight enough to hurt in all the right ways. He squeezed one last time, bringing his tits together to form a crease of cleavage before letting go—they bounced, landing on his beached whale of a body. “If you insist,” Dorian said, stepping away.  
  
Abandoned on the couch, Jael kicked his legs out farther, trying to find purchase. He swung his arms down to press against the cushions, resting his weight back. He was turned on enough that it was getting to be a problem, breath coming in harsh pants and trousers gone even _tighter_. He’d kill to get a hand on him now. “If you’re sure you won’t help,” he said, scooting himself toward the edge of the couch. Pushing himself up.  
  
Or. Well, he tried to, at least. _Really_ tried, using his muscles and tightening his core, rising belly-first. He got maybe an inch off the couch before he was toppling back with a shocked cry and a _crack_, the furniture protesting loudly under his bulk. His whole body gave an earthquake shake, trembling like a jellied dessert: the hard jut of his belly shuddering in a veritable mountain over him.  
  
Jael blinked up at its high peak, overwhelmed by the realization that he really _couldn’t_ get up on his own. He was…he was pinned. He was too full, too big, too everything to move under his own steam. If an army marched down the drive right now, the Herald of Andraste would be incapacitated within a cage of blubber.  
  
He sucked in a breath.  
  
“Try again,” Dorian encouraged, giving his shoulder a little pat. Bull just watched with feigned indifference. (There was no hiding the giant bulge between his thighs, but he was doing a damn good job of otherwise looking unaffected.) “You almost had it.”  
  
_I wasn’t even close_, Jael thought, a thread of panic making his breath puff faster. He was still painfully aroused, but he was also a little wigged out at the reality of his own helplessness.  
  
He pressed a hand by his hip, digging into the cushion. Thighs spread wide, he rocked forward once, twice, then _heaved_. Again, belly-first, rising like a full moon. He made it nearly to his feet this time before gravity snatched him back again, one fat arm pinwheeling as he went toppling back into the couch with a heavy grunt.  
  
Two things happened at once.  
  
First, the sound of a seam ripping—_loud_ in the quiet villa—as his beleaguered trousers split right down the middle. He could feel the gaping cloth seconds before he landed on his arse, and _holy shit_ he’d officially popped out of his clothes.  
  
Second, completely overshadowing that realization, the _crack crack crash_ of the couch breaking beneath him—wooden supports splintering under the hard cannonball of his full weight.  
  
The legs gave out and the whole thing caved just as his rounded arse slammed back into the mound of cushions. Jael went sprawling with a cry, _rolling_ inelegantly in some perverted mirror of his earlier fantasy. He was spilled onto his side amongst a mountain of soft pillows and expensive couch shards, belly flopped comically in front of him and wide rump exposed from ripped end to end. Feeling so unbelievably big, swollen, heaving, helpless as he lay there.  
  
The Herald of Andraste. The Inquisitor. An elf, puffed up like the fattest of human lordlings, unable to rise to his own feet under the weight of his excess.  
  
Jae lay there, stunned, uncertain how to feel. The fantasy of this was colliding head-first with the reality, and his body and mind hadn’t yet come to some agreement about whether he was okay with this. Time had seemed to slow at his fall, but it was speeding up again now as Dorian gasped and lunged to help him, already heaving him over onto his back; his _shirt_ tore now, the few buttons high on his chest letting go with a _pop pop pop_, breasts tumbling out past the now wide-open V. Exposed. _All this skin_, exposed and quivering.  
  
“Are you all right?” Dorian asked, cradling Jael’s head. Bull stepped closer, visible over the crest of Jael’s mountainous gut. “Are you hurt?”  
  
Jael let his hair be stroked back, let worried fingers caress his temples, let himself be _coddled_ for a moment before he said, “No. I-I’m not hurt.” Just mortified. And uneasy. And still blindly, painfully turned on. Spirits, maybe _more_ so now.  
  
And of course, Bull sensed that like a demon scenting blood.  
  
He _laughed_.  
  
It was a big, loud, belly-laugh, his horned head thrown back, his shoulders shaking. His own meaty pecs and gut shook with the violence of it, muscles rippling as he propped his fists on his hips and _guffawed_ over Jael’s predicament. Jael felt his insides twist, felt the shame burn bright and hot, felt ever-more like the spoiled little prince turned dathrasi _pig_, rooting himself into this pathetic state…and somehow, inexplicably, that burn of _horrified_ embarrassment made everything okay again.  
  
He’d officially done it. He’d officially gotten so fat he couldn’t get up on his own; he’d officially gotten so heavy that furniture shattered under his bulk and clothing tore over mounds of rippling flesh. No elf had ever blown up as big as he was, and no advisors were there to tactfully encourage him to suck it in and think of the image he was presenting.  
  
Jael knew the image he was presenting, and it was indolent and indulgent and spoiled and _wonderful_.  
  
He began to laugh, too, whole big body shaking with it. Spirits, what a spectacle he must be making.  
  
Dorian hesitated, looking between them with knit brows—slower to understand that Jael really was all right. Finally, however, he began to relax, a smile teasing across his lips as he began to stroke Jael’s hair. He’d moved to settle Jael’s head in his lap, and from the upside-down angle, Jael could see his lover’s smiling face…and his head butted up against a bit of Dorian’s _own_ softness, gathering at his tummy when he sat like this.  
  
Huh. Was Dorian starting to get chunky too?  
  
He pushed that thought aside for now, laughter fading into chuckles, then soft sighs. He reached up his hands to Bull, reveling in the way the soft flesh swung at the motion. “Your lord is too fat to stand under his own steam,” he said, switching games. The burn of shame was gone, and all that was left was the indolent pleasure. He wanted to be draped in silks and fed more sweet things, a mouth around his cock as he let himself swell even _bigger_. Why not? He’d already gone this far. “Help me to the bed and see to my needs.”  
  
Bull’s brow danced playfully, but he reached down and took Jael’s hands, bracing himself. Muscles rippled and heaved as he pulled Jael slowly but steadily _up_; Dorian braced his wide hips and arse, helping to push as Jael wobbled, and eventually between the _three_ of them, Jael was standing. He swayed there, belly butting up against Bull and plush rear all but exposed: clothing practically falling around him.  
  
“Good,” Jael murmured, squeezing Bull’s hands tight. “Now take me to bed. Lay me out. _Worship_ me.” Like a new kind of god. In this moment, Jael felt like one—taking a few careful, shuffling steps, _waddle_ clear in the way his belly swung and bounced, the way his flesh rippled all around him. It wouldn’t be like this when he wasn’t stuffed beyond reason, but he could easily imagine a not too distant future where this was his everyday reality: so fat, so massive, that each step was ponderous and slow.  
  
He wasn’t sure he planned on letting things get that far, but it sent a jolt through him to let his lovers each take an arm and help him now. Bobbing inelegantly toward the bed and a future where Thedas’s last great hope was as round as an Orlesian tart and three times as sweet.


	14. Chapter 14

“Careful,” Dorian chided, laughing, as Jael stepped out into the warm sunshine (hips brushing the doorframe the way they did sometimes when he wasn’t paying attention).  
  
Jael paused, glancing back at the offending doorway with a frown. One adorably plump hand dropped to the exaggerated curve of his right hip and thigh, where a faint pink scrape was just visible. “_Ow_,” he said without real heat. He looked back toward Dorian, blonde brows knitting together. “When did that doorway get so small?”  
  
“I don’t know, darling,” Dorian said, pushing off from the garden tub’s far wall and gliding through the water closer to where Jael was standing. His shadow was cast over the edge of the pool, rippling with the clear water. “Perhaps the villa is shrinking.”  
  
Jael snorted, hand sliding across flesh (and more flesh, and _more_ flesh) to curl around the impossibly soft fold of fat where side met belly. Pale pink stretch marks were just visible between his fingers, and _Maker_ but it was a pleasure to watch the way his whole huge body rippled when he gave his tummy a deliberate shake. “Perhaps the villa _is_ shrinking,” he said with a playful lift of his brow. The brat knew what it did to Dorian to see him manhandle himself that way. “If I’m not careful, it’ll grow so small I won’t fit in it anymore.”  
  
Dorian hummed a low breath, standing until the water reached his own much narrower hips. “And what a tragedy that would be,” he murmured, reaching up. From this angle—Jael standing on the edge of the pool, right over him—he was nothing but a mountain of soft, dimpled belly. Pale still, despite time spent in the sun, and malleable as dough. Standing, the low swing of his belly covered his privates and slapped temptingly against round thighs. His knees were dimpled, his hips almost obscenely wide. His arse overflowed every chair it claimed, and his tits…  
  
“Come down here and join me,” Dorian said, voice gone husky. Those tits were an overflowing handful he simply could not keep from touching. Sucking. Biting.  
  
Jael’s solid (adorable) second chin deepened as he smiled down at Dorian, round cheeks flushed. He gave a nod and waddled gracefully around the edge of the pool to the steps that led down into its shallowest end. Long gone were the days when he could lower himself off the ledge: his bulk was too impressive to go easily up or down or, well, anywhere.  
  
Dorian leaned back against the stone wall, shielding his eyes against the sun as he watched his lover in motion. It was somewhere between late summer and early fall, the days still pleasantly long and hot but the promise of upcoming harvest coolness lingering in the evening. Eventually, their stay here would have to come to an end, Dorian knew, but… Later. There was time to worry about that _later_. For now, Jael was gripping the handrail as he moved carefully down the steps, belly slapping again and again as he made his way to him.  
  
The water rose up to his calves, then thighs, then hips, displacing around him in a gentle caress. Jael shivered at its relative coolness, finally letting go of the railing as he leaned down into the water and pushed himself toward the center of the giant bath.  
  
His big body was even more graceful when fully submerged, the heavy weight lessened by buoyancy. Dorian bit the inside of his lip and moved to join him, drawn in as if by some undeniable pull of gravity. He reached out and slid his fingers into half-damp golden hair, tipping Jael’s face up for a kiss even as he let their bodies collide in the water—soft soft _soft_, giving flesh pressed against his.  
  
They both made a low noise, trapped in the back of their throats. Instinctively, Dorian licked across Jael’s lower lip before stroking his tongue inside. The slick, molten heat was enough to have him shivering, shifting, and he let the water take his own weight as he pulled himself up—legs wrapping around Jael’s middle.  
  
He had to spread his thighs so wide that they gave a delicious burn, muscles protesting. And Maker, even then he couldn’t encircle Jael completely. He was too damn massive for that; so big that it was like trying to press into a cloud, knees digging into soft, malleable fat. Somewhere in the last few weeks, he’d tripped over a final plateau and dove head-first into undeniable obesity, adding near fifty or more pounds to his already zaftig form. Now, when Bull stuffed him into immobility, his stomach no longer took the gravid, hard edge it used to. He was simply too soft for a stuffed belly to be visible beneath layers of pillowy flesh—each fold rolling down onto the next and then the next like an avalanche in slow motion.  
  
_If he gets any bloody fatter_, Dorian thought, sucking greedily on Jael’s tongue, _he’ll struggle to move anywhere on his own._  
  
The idea was exciting—illicit—but also a serious concern. They’d never talked about whether Jael even wanted to reach that point of no return; truthfully, it had been a long time since they’d talked about any of this. The spring and summer had passed in a gorgeous haze, but fall would come soon and duties would call. What would life be like for this absolute dumpling of an elf when they were back in Skyhold and all the responsibilities awaiting him there?  
  
_Think about that later,_ Dorian decided, rubbing up against the cushioned give of Jael’s belly. He was hard—of course he was hard—erection digging against plush skin even as his hands slid down to cup heavy breasts. He rubbed his thumbs over the nipples and swallowed Jael’s wanton moan with a throaty chuckle. Maker, but this man was glorious.  
  
He was so distracted by the feel of Jael’s plush body against his own that he didn’t hear Bull slide into the pool until huge hands caught his own hips and tugged him back. Dorian let the kiss break with an absolutely filthy noise, head tipping back as Bull dragged him against his muscled chest. Jael sank away a step, two, flushed pink and tumbling back to sit on the ledge. His breaths were coming in heavy pants and those glorious, _soft_ breast rose above the waterline, lush and full and delightfully round.  
  
“Let him breathe, Kadan,” Bull teased, nipping sharply at Dorian’s jaw. Dorian grumbled in response, but he arched his neck to give Bull better access, trusting his weight to the other man. “Or are you growing so greedy yourself that you can’t show patience?”  
  
“I’m not greedy,” Dorian protested, closing his eyes in pleasure as he was braced solidly against Bull’s strong bulk, one of those big hands sliding down to circle his cock—giving him a firm few pulls before sliding to palm his hip, his thigh. Across the pool, Jael hummed in appreciation. “I was just appreciating him.”  
  
Bull chuckled. “Not greedy?” he teased before sliding his hand back up to, inexplicably, cup Dorian’s tummy. He gave it a little shake. “This growing gut of yours seems to say otherwise.”  
  
Dorian’s eyes popped open, cheeks suddenly hot. Jael was lounging back and watching with open interest as Bull…_manhandled_him. He was viscerally aware of fingers digging into the embarrassing bit of pudge that had begun collecting around his middle and sides (not so much that he couldn’t suck it in when he wanted, Dorian quickly reassured himself; certainly not so much that he wouldn’t lose it soon, once he truly focused on the task), giving it a shake as if to watch it all wobble.  
  
Not that there was enough fat there to do anything of the sort.  
  
(_Oh Maker_, but he could feel his traitorous body jiggling in Bull’s grip, his tummy rounded out into Bull’s hand in a shockingly obvious little pot-belly.)  
  
“I have…I have no such thing,” Dorian protested, trying to wriggle free, but Bull had him caught easily, and every attempt to squirm away only made him _more_ aware of how he must look right now: bloated, graceless, a once-slim and utterly vain ‘Vint gone shamefully tubby.  
  
Bull slipped his thumb into Dorian’s belly button and pinched a shocking roll of flab, and _Maker_, he was getting soft. Downright plump, almost—he certainly would be soon if he wasn’t careful.  
  
_How_, Dorian thought, finally breaking away from Bull’s grip—but even as he thought it, his head was full of images of feeding Jael rich, fatty treats…and then taking a nibble or two himself. Of stealing his cup of intensely fattening qunari swill and taking a few (addictive) sips out of curiosity. Of giving in to the party atmosphere a time or two and eating…and eating…and eating alongside Jael, until his own belly stuck out a solid few inches, stuffed to the gills. Sprawling back, dazed, alongside his equally stuffed lover and letting his hard little belly press up against all that lush softness.  
  
And now, of course…this.  
  
He slapped away Bull’s hands when Bull tried to reach for him again. “I’m not one of your dathrasi,” he snapped, wading determinedly over to Jael. He felt, well, truly chubby for once, extra-aware of the rounded push of his belly and the way the rest of his muscles had been subtly layered in a soft cushion. His own hips felt particularly wide; venhedis, if he kept going, would he become dreadfully bottom-heavy? Brushing doorways and breaking furniture of his own?  
  
No, it didn’t bear thinking about. Pavuses didn’t get _fat_. And _he_ wasn’t fat. He was just…a little softer than usual. But certainly not as soft as Jael, who should have been the focus of their attention.  
  
Deliberately, stubbornly, Dorian slid in behind Jael, nudging him forward until he could cradle that _truly_ fat body against his. He was _not_ hiding—he’d bristle if anyone so much as suggested it—but he was mostly hidden by soft white flesh and saw no reason to complain about that.  
  
“Let’s get you clean, shall we?” Dorian said. He purposefully ignored Bull as the qunari came to join them, standing on the other side of Jael.  
  
Jael tipped his head to look up at him, reaching up to brush Dorian’s still-hot cheeks with the backs of his fingers. “I think you look absolutely beautiful,” he said earnestly. “You would be lovely at any size.”  
  
_Any size_. As if there was some chance of Dorian getting even fatter. No, thank you. “Yes, well,” Dorian said, squirming in embarrassment at the thought. He slid his hands down to rest of Jael’s big stomach again, digging his fingers into pliant flesh and letting it wobble beneath him. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”  
  
Bull grinned, reaching down to give the bottom swell of Jael’s stomach a little pat. “Dorian thinks there will be _any_ losing weight around you,” he said—still gently mocking in a way that sent heat and shame shivering down Dorian’s spine. “But that won’t be possible, will it? He’s only going to grow that little pot-belly bigger and bigger, until he’s a shadow of you: the both of you sprawled out together like fat little nugs, basking in the heat.”  
  
He gave Jael’s stomach a sharp slap.  
  
Jael gasped and arched back against Dorian, his head falling to his shoulder. His plush chest rose and fell, nipples tight. “I want that,” he murmured, thighs spreading wider, pushing up. In the water, he was lighter than he’d been on land in months, but he still felt substantial in Dorian’s arms (just as that image of the two of them lazy and corpulent felt substantial; when Bull talked about it, Dorian could practically feel his own belly rising like dough. He could feel himself growing heavier, weightier, round and spoiled and _plump_. He shuddered at the thought.) “I want to lay sprawled on the bed under the mountain of my tummy and let you rub oils against my skin.”  
  
“I’d have to lift up your belly to get to the surprise beneath,” Bull tsked, doing just that: two big, strong hands gripping Jael’s overflowing stomach and lifting it up off his lush thighs. He stepped in closer, and let go with a dramatic _flop_; it spilled around him, softly squishing against his muscled chest and one working arm as he reached down to grip Jael’s cock. “And Dorian would have to roll over onto his side—it’d take a few tries,” he added, cutting a playful look at Dorian, who merely glared back. “He’s gotten so round, you know. All belly and hips and arse. It’s been such a pleasure watching his vanity fight his natural self-indulgence as he grows and grows…and grows.”  
  
“Don’t’ listen to him,” Dorian tsked, leaning in to nuzzle at Jael’s shoulder. He bit at the soft skin, leaving reddening marks even as he reached around to squeeze the upper rolls of his belly, smoothing his fingers down to the main apron of fat. “The only thing growing is his ego.”  
  
Bull grinned. “I have the prettiest, fattest little dathrasi lovers around,” he pointed out. “Why wouldn’t my ego be big?”  
  
Dorian bared his teeth. “I am not _fat_,” he seethed, feeling like it was a lie even as he said the words.  
  
And then Jael was lifting one heavy arm—wide, _soft_, pale flesh swinging. It was about as wide around as a thigh used to be, dimpled flesh folded beautifully at the elbow. He slung it back against Dorian’s shoulder, hand cupping the back of his neck, and drew him down for the sweetest of kisses.  
  
It was slow and lush and open-mouthed, full of flicking tongue stroking deeper and deeper. Dorian let himself be drawn in by it, sinking into the simple luxury of spit and twining tongues and the _taste_ of him. Sweet, sugar perpetually on his lips. Maker, he really could eat this delectable cream puff of an elf alive.  
  
When the kiss broke, their lips stayed close together, their (quickened) breaths mingling. Bull still had Jael’s soft, huge belly lifted, the muscles of one arm straining as he stroked him into higher and higher pleasure. Jael’s eyes were blown wide and dark, his skin flushed; his expression was dazed. But he still held on to Dorian as he met his eyes, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You’re not fat, Dorian,” Jael said, voice husky. And then, before Dorian could relax: “But you will be…”


	15. Chapter 15

It was late and—surprisingly enough, considering the absolutely massive dinner he’d had earlier in the evening—Jael was hungry.  
  
He lay in bed, listening to Bull’s steady snores, and stared up at the dark ceiling. Judging from the moon just visible beyond his window, it was somewhere around three or four in the morning. Either far too late or far too early to be laying here wide awake thinking about food, but he’d woken from a dream in which he was crawling across the wide hills and valleys of the Fade, soft belly swaying heavily below him.  
  
It had been…so strange. The Fade wasn’t any dreamscape he remembered; this time, it was a criss-crossing river of chocolate and sweet icing, its rocks hard sugar. Every few shuffling feet, he’d press down face-first and take a greedy bite of the earth, ripping up the cookie dough ground with his teeth. Chocolate-stained fingers stuffed handful after handful into his mouth as he managed to shuffle his way along, and he paused to drink gusty swallows of those meandering rivers, letting the rich sweetness flow over his tongue and into his waiting gut.  
  
The funny part was, it became harder to crawl forward with every second that passed, engorged belly rounding out more and more and more until it bumped and dragged across the ground beneath him: hanging so far off his once-svelte body that it squished out in rolls between his hands and knees. Pretty soon, he’d realized by the end, he’d be too fat to crawl anymore—his rounded-out belly lifting him off the ground into a great, big, fleshy ball.  
  
_Maybe_, he remembered thinking, _I can roll the rest of the way._  
  
That’s when Jael woke with a start, stomach _growling_ in reaction. The dream had been so real, he could practically taste it on his tongue, and he lay there in a sort of dazed haze, rubbing at the soft upper fold of his belly and remembering how it’d felt to be nothing more than a round sphere of blubbery flesh.  
  
Even outside the bizarre dream, he truly was getting pretty massive, Jael thought, fat legs spread wide under the weight of his gut. Laying on his back, his stomach rose above him in an impressive dome, nearly higher than Bull’s huge bulk. It wobbled and swayed with every breath, his chubby hand a skiff on the ocean. If he rolled up onto his hands and knees now, would the hanging edge of that soft flesh brush the bedclothes?  
  
Did he _want_ it to?  
  
_Eventually I have to go back to my regular life_, Jael thought, giving the buttery soft flesh a squeeze. _I’ll have to leave this place._He didn’t want to do that—he wanted to stay here forever, with Bull and Dorian and the sweet taste of pure hedonistic freedom—but the days were getting shorter and colder and this bacchanal would soon have to come to an end.  
  
And then… Goodness, and then Vivienne and Josephine would probably tag-team to put him on the diet of his life until he was merely a comically fat elf instead of an impossibly obese one.  
  
_But not yet_, he told himself, giving his soft fat another squeeze. _Not yet._  
  
His stomach rumbled as if in agreement, and Jael grinned toothily in the darkness. All right, then; he could take a hint. It wasn’t as if it mattered if he got any _fatter_, anyway. He glanced over, ready to poke Dorian awake and ask to be let out of the bed…but his lover was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Huh. Strange.  
  
Frowning philosophically, Jael took advantage of the easy escape route and wriggled over into Dorian’s space. His pillow was cool, as if Dorian hadn’t been to bed for some time, and the mattress dipped alarmingly beneath his weight as he inched his way over. He had to pause and gather his belly up in his arms before struggling to sit, using one elbow to propel himself up when his body didn’t seem to want to obey. One thick thigh dropping over the edge of the bed, Jael pushed himself around—huge belly still gathered in his fat arms—and braced himself against the floorboard.  
  
All right. Now, _push._  
  
He swung his other leg around and propelled himself up, taking a staggering step before finding his balance again. It was always like this now: he’d grown so big, so fast, that he simply wasn’t used to the constant struggle of standing up or walking long distances or…or doing much of anything anymore, really. With Bull and Dorian there to pamper him, it was a big day when Jael raised a single finger for himself.  
  
That, too, would have to change when he returned to the Inquisition, but for now he let his belly flop down against his thighs and made his slow, ponderous way into the kitchen to find something good to eat.  
  
All the lights were off, the villa absolutely quiet. Windows had been left thrown open, however, the cool breeze prickling against his bare skin and sending a rash of gooseflesh down his arms. His nipples (tipping large, soft breasts that rode the upper roll of his gut) tightened, and Jael rubbed fitfully at the outer edges of his own big belly, trying to chase away the chill.  
  
He paused when he heard a soft noise, head cocking in surprise. Standing halfway to the large kitchen, Jael strained to hear the odd sound again. It was like…like something soft scraping together, followed by light rustling. Frown deepening, he made his careful way toward the open doorway. It surely wasn’t an intruder—they hadn’t seen another soul in months—but perhaps some wild creature had crashed its way through one of the open windows. A mouse? A fennec?  
  
_Or maybe_, Jael amended with a quickly muffled laugh, turning the corner and stopping there at the threshold as he took in in the scene, _an adorably fat nug._  
  
_Dorian_ sat on the cool tile floor, naked save for a colorful sarong wrapped around his hips, legs spread out before him. Piles and piles of half-eaten bits of detritus were strewn around his fleshy hips: leftovers from their massive feast earlier in the evening, pie tins, cheese plates, mounds of fatty ham and sugared beets. He was busy stuffing a mouthful of, well, _stuffing_ into his mouth, eyes closed in what looked like absolute hedonistic bliss, a quarter-empty bottle of wine open at his elbow.  
  
In the moonlight, his skin glowed a warm brown, distended belly actually _touching his thighs_ it was packed so full. Leaning back against the wall, gut heaving with every breath, ghost of a second chin no longer quite so ghostly anymore, pecs softened enough that Jael could pinch the flesh between his fingers and give it a wobble, Dorian looked so blissfully, wonderfully _chubby_ that Jael felt a blooming warm in his chest.  
  
Spirits. There were thickening rolls at his sides and everything.  
  
He watched, brows lifted, as Dorian fumbled blindly back for the bottle and lifted it to his mouth. He took a long, greedy pull, his free hand falling to the brazenly wide curve of his bared gut, fingers rubbing absently at the fattest part of him. Yes, yes his belly was most _definitely_ resting in his lap right now, and Jael couldn’t help the gleeful smirk as he watched all that fine wine subtly rounding out his vain lover _just a little more_.  
  
_My, my, my_, Jael thought, taking in this perfect scene of utter unself-conscious gluttony. _It looks like Bull’s had his way with both of us after all._  
  
“Enjoying yourself, Dorian?” he asked, swallowing a laugh when Dorian startled, splashing wine across his chest and exposed gut. It rolled down the ball-like dome, catching in the creases of fat framing his (much) wider hips.  
  
Dorian blinked up at him, a deep flush darkening his cheeks. He carefully set the wine bottle aside, wiping away any last traces from full lips with the back of his hand. “Jael,” he said, obviously embarrassed at being caught like this. (Belly out, swollen, stuffing himself like a prize nug for market.) “Darling, I—” He had to stop, one hand covering his mouth on a muffled belch. His deliciously swollen gut shook with the motion. “I did not expect you.”  
  
“Obviously,” Jael teased, dropping one hand to his own massive hip. “Otherwise, you may have saved more than a bite or two instead of gobbling it all up on your own.”  
  
That flush darkened, Dorian visibly squirming in shame. The motion just made his belly settle deeper into the valley of his thighs, gorgeously plumped up so big his skin had taken on a shiny sheen: an overripe fruit ready to burst. And no wonder, if he had eaten everything spread out around him. Judging by the empty plates and platters and wrappings, he’d had in one sitting enough for four people.  
  
It was…  
  
Frankly, it was pretty damn hot.  
  
“I, well, I may have gotten carried away,” Dorian admitted with another muffled, sheepish belch. His breathing was labored, Jael noticed with mounting delight, until Dorian was practically panting with effort. From just _sitting there_, as if fattening himself up so much had taken all his energy. “But once I started, I…” He sighed and tipped his head back, eyes closing. “Amatus, once I started, I couldn’t bloody well _stop_.”  
  
“It’s Bull’s influence,” Jael said, shuffling into the room and picking his way across the tiles toward Dorian. He stopped in front of him, unwilling to drop down onto the ground next to him. (If he went down, Jael knew, he wouldn’t be getting back _up_ under his own steam. “He’s trying to grow a whole herd of dathrasi.”  
  
“Its _Bull’s_ influence,” Dorian agreed on a hiss, baring his teeth. “I was perfectly content to be slim and gorgeous before he brought me on this trip, and now look at me.” He reached down, hands cupped around the wide circumference of his swollen paunch, and gave it a little shake in demonstration. “I’m _massive._”  
  
Jael laughed and deliberately slid his own hands down his own hanging belly, massaging his fingers deep into the giving flesh. “No, love. _I_ am massive. You’re just fat.”  
  
“Fat,” Dorian sighed in disgust, looking down at himself.  
  
“Roly-poly,” Jael teased. “Round. Fleshy. Of a certain size.”  
  
When Dorian looked up at him, his eyes were narrowed—and, even better, his double chin was visibly present, softening the harsh line of his jaw. “That’s enough from you,” he scolded.  
  
Jael simply laughed. “Podgy. Pudgy. Chubby. _Growing_.”  
  
Dorian lurched forward as if to swat at him…only to give a grunt of effort and go rocking back against the wall with a solid _thud_, truly massively over-stuffed gut getting in the way. He cupped it, blinking in visible shock; he’d obviously never been betrayed by his own body like that.  
  
“You should try getting up,” Jael said with a commiserative sigh. Then, shuffling back a few feet (flesh swaying at the motion), “No, seriously, Dorian: you should try getting up. Join me on the couch for more wine.”  
  
“I obviously don’t need more wine, amatus,” Dorian said, fingers digging into his delightfully fleshy side as if only just now discovering the rolls. “I don’t need anymore anything. Just _look_ at me.”  
  
Jael’s heart gave a soft twinge. “I _am_ looking at you,” he said quietly, “and I think you look beautiful.”  
  
Dorian looked up, brows knit crossly. “I look huge,” he muttered.  
  
“You look beautiful,” Jael said again—then offered his hands. “Come on,” he said. “It’s easier to haul up with someone’s help. Spread your thighs,” he added. “You’re going to want to give your belly somewhere to go.”  
  
“I have a belly,” Dorian moaned piteously, but he did as Jael suggested, spreading his thighs and bracing his heels against the tile. He reached up to clasp Jael’s pudgy hands, _heaving_ up just as Jael began to pull.  
  
It was…remarkably difficult, actually, Dorian huffing and swearing as he struggled to get up on his feet. But eventually he rose up belly-first, figuring out how to use Jael’s counter-weight as balance, and they were standing just apart from each other, panting heavily with the exertion—bellies lightly brushing with each indrawn breath. Soft and hard, huge and…growing. Illicit enough to send a bolt of heat through Jael’s body.  
  
Dorian brushed hair out of his eyes, looking messier and more unkempt than Jael had ever seen him. There was sweat beading his brow and chocolate smeared across his lower lip. Hunched over just a little, the soft padding accumulating at his pecs (making his nipples look puffy and soft) was even more obvious than normal, and Jael had the most intense desire to reach out and cup those growing breasts.  
  
_You’re getting so big,_ he thought, heat pooling low in his belly at the realization. _You’re getting so fat._  
  
“This…needs to stop,” Dorian said grimly. He had one hand braced against the wall, the other cradling his swollen-up belly. Like this, with gravity doing all the work, he looked _pregnant_. Round and gravid and growing softer by the day. “I need to stop. Look what the two of you are doing to me.”  
  
“You love it,” Jael said—then laughed at the sour look Dorian shot him. “All right then—_I_ love it. Just look at you.” He shuffled closer, deliberately letting the _soft soft soft_ give of his own belly brush against Dorian’s arse and upper thighs. Dorian straightened just as Jael wrapped his arms around his lover’s swollen middle, pulling him back into the pillowy give of his body.  
  
Dorian’s arse was so thick, his hips flaring out wide. Spirits, he was turning into such a lovely pear. “You can’t tell me there isn’t a part of you that enjoys this,” Jael murmured, wrapping slowly around him, letting Dorian be engulfed by him. He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of his neck, smiling to himself when Dorian began to melt. “You loved making _me_ fat, after all.”  
  
“That’s different, amatus.” Dorian’s voice came out husky, low. His breathing hitched when Jael slid his hands up to map the swollen dome of his gorgeously large potbelly. Oh, but Dorian had eaten so much. He’d stuffed himself silly, and his body would pay for his indulgence in ever-growing rolls of flesh. “You…you wear it, ah, well.”  
  
He arched, rubbing back against Jael, head falling back against his pillowy shoulder.  
  
Jael gave into temptation and slid his hands further up to cup soft, nascent breasts. He squeezed the pads of fat, then pinched Dorian’s nipples between his fingers, riding out his full-body writhe.  
  
“I’m not the only one who wears the weight beautifully, love,” he whispered. “You’re going to be so glorious when you’ve plumped yourself up even more…”  
  
“Not going to happen,” Dorian interrupted sharply.  
  
Jael ignored the (obviously false) protest. “…soft body jiggling everywhere you go…”  
  
“I am _not_ getting fat for you and Bull’s perverse pleasure!”  
  
“…all those fancy buckles bursting open one after the other as you continue to _gorge_ yourself every night…”  
  
Dorian slapped at his wandering hands, making as if to pull away—though of course, he didn’t try very hard to escape. “That will not be happening, thank you. Not all of us are you.” He rocked back again, deliberately pushing his hips, his fat arse, against the soft bulge of Jael’s belly. _It_ in return was ground against his growing erection, and _bloody void_ that felt so good.  
  
It would feel even better if he…  
  
Jael bumped forward with his own hips, driving Dorian up a startled step, then another. Dorian glanced back at him, confused, until he realized Jael was deliberately herding him toward the table. They’d played this game before, Dorian spread across the wooden surface, Jael’s blubbery belly lifted until it smacked against the small of his back—weighing him down as Jael worked himself deep inside Dorian’s heat.  
  
Of course, they’d never played that sort of sexy game when Dorian was this swollen up with food, and Jael had to bite the inside of his mouth to hide a smile when Dorian began swatting at him in protest, twisting in his arms until they were face to face, gut to gut.  
  
“That will not work tonight, amatus,” Dorian said, pushing in against him. He felt amazing in Jael’s arms, every bit of him lush and ripe. Jael awkwardly (his own fat arms getting in the way) groped around for Dorian’s ass, trying to yank him even closer. “Later.”  
  
“Why won’t it work?” Jael blinked innocently, trying to play dumb—trying to make Dorian admit he’d eaten too much to get fucked any way but slow and lazy and careful. If Bull was here with them now, he’d probably reach out to jiggle Dorian’s belly in illustration, but then, Bull could be deliciously cruel.  
  
The look Dorian shot him was not amused.  
  
Jael just laughed, leaning in for a soft kiss. “All right,” he said. “Tomorrow. When you’re not so…sensitive.” He caught the hand Dorian swatted at him and kissed it, too, tongue brushing over his fingertips. He could taste the lingering tang of chocolate on his thumb, and Jael hummed a pleased noise as he sucked it into his mouth, loving the way Dorian’s eyes went glazed and unfocused. He may have been too swollen tender to act on the fire licking through him, but he was certainly responding beautifully; was he turned on, Jael wondered as he scraped his teeth over the pad of his thumb, by eating so much? Had it given him an illicit thrill to sneak out of bed and devour the contents of their larder? Had he touched his hardened flesh even as he shoved mouthful after mouthful down his gullet, bloating himself up so nice and big and juicy and _fat_?  
  
Either way, Jael wanted to lay Dorian out across their big bed and explore every swollen inch of him.  
  
“For now, let’s go back to bed,” he murmured, kissing the inside of his wrist, then down his inner arm.  
  
“Mmm, but what about what you came here for?” Dorian asked. At Jael’s lifted brow, he arched a single dark brow of his own and reached down to give Jael’s big, soft belly a deliberate wobble. “I assume you came looking for food to fill this monstrous thing up?”  
  
A shiver worked its way through him at the way Dorian was handling his pillowy body. “Originally, yes,” he had to admit. “But I ended up getting distracted somewhere along the way. I wonder what could have done that?”  
  
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Dorian replied archly. “What do you crave even more than _food_?”  
  
Jael snaked his arm around Dorian’s waist and deliberately hauled him against his body, moving back toward the doorway. The slow, ponderous waddle of his body was thrown off by Dorian’s extra weight, but the way Dorian hooked his arms around Jael’s neck and laughed was well worth the monumental effort. “Oh, I can think of a thing or two I’d rather have in my mouth,” Jael said with a wicked grin—and the two of them made their stumbling way back toward the bedroom, laughing and feeling each other up and giving in to the utter joy of being together.  
  
By the time Dorian was rolled (literally) back into the bed, Bull had turned over to face them, head propped on his fist. He watched in amusement as Dorian cursed and heaved himself the rest of the way into the middle, one big hand dropping to rest possessively over the high, hard dome of his gut. “It looks like someone was having fun with the cookie jar,” he rumbled playfully, grey fingers massaging deep against that over-packed gut.  
  
Dorian was visibly struggling not to moan. Jael couldn’t blame him; Bull gave _the best_ belly rubs. “Oh, quiet, both of you. It’s your fault I’m even in this state,” Dorian sniffed. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll help me work it off the first chance we get.”  
  
“Not a chance,” Bull countered, giving Dorian’s increasingly ample flesh a jiggle. He grinned as Jael began the process of hauling himself into bed, the soft bottom swing of his belly landing on the mattress seconds before one round thigh. “Need help there, boss?”  
  
“I think any more of your help would have me stuck in this bed forever,” Jael teased, flopping down once he was more or less properly arranged. The bed groaned under their combined weight, but held. For now. “Dorian’s right about one thing: you’re very bad for the figure.”  
  
In the moonlight, Bull’s shit-eating grin was a shining beacon. “Guilty,” he said easily, deliberately giving a muttering Dorian’s gut another bounce. “Reminds me, though: I’ve been thinking of doing a proper cookout. Dig a big pit, get some fronds, roast some meat, veggies, sides. Really go all-out. A proper feast.”  
  
“And I wonder who he intends to _eat_ this proper feast of his?” Dorian said, pushing Bull’s hand away when he began to fondle his deepening love handles.  
  
Bull leaned in and nuzzled his neck, eye locked on Jael. _Gleaming_. “Why, _you_. Got a lot of catching up before you’re as big as the boss here, but I figure tonight’s going to melt some more fat right on your bones, just in time for me and Jael spread you out—hold you down—fill your ballooning gut with so much food you think you’ll pop, then wait a bit and do it again. Maybe _again_ after that, until you forget what it’s like not to be stuffed stupid; until those pretty little breasts sprout thick enough to suckle, and those wide hips start jiggling and swaying as you move, and that gut folds over into a proper belly _soft_ as butter to the touch.”  
  
Dorian visibly shivered, thighs spreading not-so-subtly apart. Even beneath the sarong, his cock was an obvious bulge, pressing stiff against the overhang of his swollen belly.  
  
“A-and Jael?” he asked, voice husky.  
  
Jael leaned down to press a kiss to Dorian’s parted mouth, one hand cupping his little breast again. Spirits, but it was so sweetly plump now. “Jael will be there,” he murmured huskily, “helping.”  
  
“And eating all the trimmings,” Bull promised, “until that big old belly starts to droop to his knees. Don’t worry,” he added, “I haven’t forgotten anyone.” Then he looked up, meeting Jael’s eyes, and winked. “Can’t let my two eager little dathrasi waste away, can I?”


	16. Chapter 16

For all he had been bracing for the inevitable, Jael didn’t see the end coming until it all but stumbled over him.

It was late afternoon, the sun sinking low on the horizon. He’d been soaking up its heat for the better part of an hour now, floating on his back and letting the water carry his weight. Bull had added some kind of bright pink salt to the huge step-down bath, and now even Jael felt light again—massive form buoyed up by the gentle lap of water.

He smiled to himself, round arms fanning out as he spread across the surface. He had put on so much weight so quickly (again, all thanks to the Iron Bull and his wonderful qunari tricks) that sometimes the sheer drag of his own body was a surprise. While he wouldn’t trade it for anything, it was nice to be freed of the heavy weight for a little bit and allow himself to enjoy the other sensory pleasures of being this big.

The cool, soft squish of belly between his fingers, for instance. The over-sensitive prickle of his skin. The defiant pride—the erotic contradiction—the _awareness_ that he was both the fattest elf to ever live (surely, _surely_ that was true) and a reclaimed weapon. The Inquisition had turned him into a tool, but in this time, he’d turned that tool into his own vision of what it, he, should be.

His very, very round vision.

Jael blinked open his eyes and gazed at the length of his body, floating placidly in the water like a moving island. His huge belly spilled over his spread thighs, too soft to hold its previous round shape. He’d gotten so flabby after that first burst of gaining, so buttery soft. When he wriggled his toes and flapped his legs a little, his whole frame wobbled like custard in a bowl—even his breasts (two great big qunari handfuls) trembled with the movement.

Spirits, but he was a bloody masterpiece.

“Are you enjoying yourself, amatus?” Dorian asked with a laugh, and _speaking_ of masterpieces…

Jael lifted his head, letting his arms spread wide to counterbalance the movement and keep him from sinking, and took a moment to admire his increasingly round lover. Dorian had taken to being fat like a duck to water, though he hardly embraced it as heartily as Jael. Even now, lounging indolently on the outdoor chaise, he was mostly covered up. _Mostly_, because that gut of his was getting too big again for his newly sized-up wardrobe. The gauzy robe was held together by delicate knotted ties trailing from sternum to calves, and Dorian had done his very best to cover himself up…but spirits, the way those loops of fabric strained over the proud dome of his belly…

It was positively indecent. A hundred times more suggestive than Jael’s own nudity, cloth groaning and creaking when Dorian adjusted his position on the chaise. Gaping crescents of flesh appeared between the ties clinging to the roundest part of his (incredibly round) gut, and it looked like a single deep breath would send them snapping one after the other. Or maybe a particularly big meal would do the trick; judging by the sweet smells drifting out of the kitchen’s open window, that was what Bull had in mind for the evening’s entertainment.

Jael began to grin to himself, imagining Dorian huffing for breath as he sank back against the cushions, hands framing his distended belly. His mouth smeared with glistening sweetness, those visible crescents of flesh widening with each moan. The rest of his robe would look painted on him, fabric straining as he sprawled—meaty thighs widening to better cradle the heft of his gut, second chin flashing sweetly as he rubbed his palms over his over-stuffed gut, burping up curses and mutters about how Bull and Jael were an _absolute menace_ even as those little ties stretched and strained and finally _snapped_ one after the other.

_FWOOMP_: his belly would roll forward, no longer held back by restraining cloth, bouncing fat slapping against his thighs as all of Dorian seemed to expand from one breath to the other. He’d gasp, eyes gone wide and helpless to stop all that naked flesh from exposing itself to their hungry eyes: a _fat little dathrasi_, as Bull liked to call him, served up on a silken cushion.

It was such a vivid image—such an inevitability, knowing Bull as he did—that Jael couldn’t help the squirm of heat in his own belly as he watched Dorian shift himself over (stomach rolling to the side as he moved, more than big enough now to impede Dorian’s usual grace) the better to look down at him. Black brows lifted in question, but the expression on his face was nothing but fond.

_I love you_, Dorian’s eyes seemed to be saying, even as he asked, tartly, “And what are you laughing to yourself over?”

It didn’t seem wise, considering how vain Dorian still could be, to answer: _I’m laughing about just how fat we’ve both gotten._ Instead, Jael said, “I’m laughing to myself because I’m happy.”

That made even the pretend tartness fade from his lover in a breath, and Dorian began to lever himself up (awkwardly, Jael noted with delight, and belly-first, as if he were heavy with child) and onto his feet. His gauzy robe fluttered around him, flowing about his knees and straining over his prodigious gut. From this angle, standing at the edge of the pool and looking down at Jael, he was nearly all belly, bulging forward like the prow of a ship.

(Jael made a mental note to tell Bull he should try admiring Dorian from this angle—it was certainly, ah, invigorating to see just how plumped up he’d become under their tender care.)

“You look happy, amatus,” Dorian murmured, completely unaware of exactly what was making Jael flush so pink. Then, with a soft laugh, “And increasingly like a cloud floating there with the sky reflecting around you in the water.”

Jael grinned and spread his arms wide to encompass the spill of his own belly. He gave the malleable roll of flesh a gentle squeeze. “I feel like a cloud,” he teased. “Or maybe a bit of spun sugar: soft enough to melt away on your tongue.”

Dorian bit his full lower lip, gaze zeroing in on the way Jael softly jiggled and squeezed the overflow of his belly. He was fat enough the hang of his belly easily covered his privates, but no doubt Dorian could tell just hot turned on Jael was getting by the wriggle of his massive hips. “Soft enough to melt away on my tongue, is it?” Dorian said, voice going low and throaty. “That sounds like an offer I couldn’t possibly refuse; you know just how much I like sweet things.”

_Oh, I know_, Jael thought, not letting his gaze dip damningly to the proud arc of Dorian’s gut. There were certainly enough _sweet things_ filling out that paunch. “Then maybe you shouldn’t refuse,” he said, and gave his soft body a deliberate jiggle. Thrust proud over his supine body, his belly rose like whipped cream on a cake. It trembled with the movement—his pink-tipped tits shook—and Jael could have sworn he heard the cloth of Dorian’s robe tear just a little as Dorian groaned deep and heavy.

Dread wolf take him, maybe _that_ would be just as fun a way to pop him out of his clothes: make him pant so hard after Jael that the whole thing came shredding apart with each breath.

Jael was preparing to do just that (a plan forming in his head that involved leaning back against the far pool wall and deliberately lifting his belly clear out of the water to expose the straining prick underneath) when he heard a noise in the distance: a crack of splintered wood, and a soft nicker.

_The end_, he thought, startled. _So soon?_

Dorian turned toward the sound with a frown. “I didn’t realize we were expecting deliveries,” he said, somehow not understanding right away what was going on. “Bull!” Dorian called, even as he began to move around the screen that kept the cooling wind from sweeping into their courtyard. Jael could see the encroaching figures clearly through the slatted wood and tried to call out a warning, but surprise had frozen the breath in his lungs and all he could do was watch Dorian bobble and sway (his gait clearly impacted by his growing belly but not yet a waddle) beyond its protection to see what was amiss.

Jael sat up in the large bath, water sluicing everywhere as his sheer bulk displaced it. He watched, somewhere between horrified and titillated, as Dorian spotted the encroaching riders and froze, one hand lifted to shield his eyes, the other stilled mid-twitching his indecent robe back into place.

_Clop-clop, clop-clop_ and the jingle of harnesses filled the air, neither loud enough to drown out Cassandra’s gasp. “_By the Maker_.”

“Dorian!” Vivienne’s voice was sharp with surprise. “My dear, whatever has happened to you?”

“You’ve gotten fat, Sparkler,” Varric added, sounding amused but not cruel. Hidden by the screen and the pool, Jael could just make out his form perched on a dark mare. He was leaning forward against the saddle horn, brows arched as he took in Dorian’s body with open curiosity.

“Positively rotund,” Vivienne added. Then, tsking, “And hardly dressed to boot. Dear, you’ve grown far too big for your own clothing—one more breath and the whole thing will come snapping to pieces.”

Cassandra made a choking noise.

Jael watched Dorian’s posture stiffen. He’d instinctively dropped a hand to the outer swell of his gut, but he snatched it away when he caught all three pairs of eyes following the gesture. Dorian swayed there, caught out and flat-footed; Jael could only imagine the complicated play of emotions skittering across his expression. Embarrassment, defiance, shame, deviant delight, acceptance, pride. Dorian was _so_ conflicted about his own blossoming frame that he wouldn’t know which way to go or how to handle this kind of attention. He’d feel mortified at being called _fat_ even as a part of him wallowed in it.

_I have to help him_, Jael thought, already grabbing for the railing Bull had installed along the edges of the pool. He caught the slippery metal and gripped, _hauling_ himself up fully to his feet. It was, spirits, a chore—the buoyant water that had so easily held him aloft seemed just as determined to suck him back down again, and as he rose to his feet (widening his stance as he adjusted to returned gravity) his weight seemed to double, triple, _more_ with each second.

His thick belly swayed down between his round thighs; his tits swung to slap against the upper roll. His arms felt too heavy for his frame and his whole body _trembled_—water sluicing over quivery flesh as Jael swayed in place.

He had to suck in a heaving breath before taking a step toward the shallow edge and the way out. The others were still talking as he slowly made his way to Dorian’s rescue.

“…something to cover yourself with,” Vivienne was saying, not entirely unkindly. “I may have a blanket big enough.”

“Is that really necessary?” Varric asked, but Cassandra cut off any reply with a low, “Dorian, how did this happen to you? You are so… You are so very…”

“Fat,” Dorian said tartly, shoulders hunched forward defensively. “Yes, yes, I am very _fat_ now; isn’t that novel?”

There was a rumble of soft laughter. “You can blame me for that, Seeker. Madame le Fer.” Bull stepped out the side door and moved to Dorian’s side; Jael (just at the steps and starting to haul himself out one jiggling lift of a thigh at a time) watched as he slid a protective arm around Dorian’s shoulders…and placed a possessive hand on the proud jut of his belly. “Could say I’ve been feeding him up, fattening him for the winter.”

“_Bull_,” Dorian hissed, swatting at him, but Bull just dug in his heels, that big hand spanning the outer globe of Dorian’s round gut, his thumb flicking down one of the straining open crescents and dipping into his belly button.

He grinned, big and full of bared teeth. “I took up cooking and found it too much fun stuffing my little dathrasi until they could barely move,” he purred, stroking Dorian’s belly possessively. “Getting them nice and round and lazy—feeding them up until all they could do was roll about and drowse away their days. This one’s been resisting,” he gave Dorian a definite wobble, patting the dome of his belly, “but he’s still taking to being fat nice as you please despite himself.”

Dorian made a choked noise, torn somewhere between mortification and…laughter? Cassandra just breathed, “But…_why_? Why would you do such a thing?” even as Vivienne zeroed in on the important bit.

“Wait, my dear,” she said, dismounting from her horse. “Did you say _them_?”

Bull laughed and Jael tried to hurry his steps. He was on the patio now—dry land at last—and torn between waddling for something to cover his naked flesh and riding in to help save the day. Water dripped down the rolls and rolls and _rolls_ of his body, gleaming on hills and valleys of malleable flesh. No one had spotted him through the screen just yet, their attention locked on Bull-and-Dorian.

“You know what the purpose is,” Bull said to Varric. “Don’t you?”

“Sure do,” Varric answered. He still sounded amused, but also…fond? Nostalgic? Whatever it was, it warmed his voice. “Hard to be made to fight for the Inquisition when you’re big as a druffalo.”

Cassandra sucked in a breath. “Is that what this is about?” she demanded. “Is this…is this Hawke all over again?” Then, horrified: “By the Maker, will we find Jael stuck in a doorway somewhere?”

_Stuck in a doorway? Hawke_? That sounded intriguing enough for Jael to decide damn modesty anyway and start to determinedly waddle his way to the screen.

Bull just laughed. “Maybe,” he said indulgently. “Some of those doors are starting to look dangerously narrow for our Inquisitor’s hips. In fact—”

“Amatus,” Dorian said in warning, spotting Jael. Jael had no idea whether he meant to hush Bull or urge Jael away—either way, his eyes were just as wide as the others as Jael came trundling determinedly into view, shocking the trio into thunderous silence.

He couldn’t imagine how much of a shock it was to see him now, like this. The last time they had seen him, he’d been the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor—the spear of the Inquisition. Perhaps not exactly rail-thin anymore thanks to time spent drinking with the Chargers and growing himself a little unelvenlike potbelly, but hardly even a quarter of what he was now.

And what he was now was _hugely fat_. Absolutely obese, round and soft as a butterball with widely flaring hips, thick waist-sized thighs that smushed against each other as he waddled, rounded shoulders and arms pillowy with flesh, hanging tits that swaying with each breath and a belly—by the spirits, his belly, swaying out and down in a grabbable swell of dimpled flesh that rolled effortlessly over his privates and landed near to his knees.

Standing there, the center of their shocked stares, Jael’s body bobbed and swayed without his conscious control. He was short enough and fat enough that he at least _felt_ nearly as wide as he was tall now, every inch of him plumped up nearly beyond recognition. This, this massive elf standing there—his glowing hand was the only clue that he was at all connected to the worn-down, wrung-out Herald who had arrived here what felt like an age ago.

Jael stood straighter, lifting his chin. Naked and huge and daring any of them to try to shame him for it. This was the form her chose, the life he wanted. Not the savior of Thedas-kind (though he’d done that too) but the celebrated warrior allowed to live his life in peace now. Thoroughly gone to pot and ruined for anything else.

Cassandra let out a long, slow breath, seeming to take all of that in with one look. Her shoulders rounded forward, and she shook her head. “Commander Cullen is going to kill me for allowing this to happen,” she said simply.

“Don’t take credit for what _I_ helped my boys create,” Bull tsked playfully. He reached out with his free arm and hauled Jael closer, squishing his body into Bull’s hard bulk. Dorian—flushed pink but growing in defiance—tilted his head to rest his temple against one bulging pec. “I’m the one who fattened them up. You just gave me the time and space to get it done right.”

“It _is_ just like Hawke all over again,” Cassandra sighed. “Will everyone I know become so…so…so…” She gestured to the three of them, helpless but already accepting—adjusting to this new, much softer, vision of reality. “So _abominably fat_?”

“Maker, I hope not,” Vivienne said with a sharp laugh, even as Jael said impishly, “Spirits, I hope so.” He gave his own belly a sharp slap, letting the fat jiggle in illustration. “Just think of how much fun we’d have rolling our wall through the Hinterlands.”

Even Dorian gave a strangled laugh at that, and Bull threw back his head and practically _howled_ in amusement. Varric shook his head with a chuckle and Jael _grinned_, all teeth, loving the surge of power he felt. Of control over his own life and his own body, at long last.

“It is, admittedly, easier to happen than you might think,” Dorian added with a wry shame-and-pride mingled rub of his own ever-growing potbelly, and Cassandra threw up her hands in defeat. “You should try it sometime, Seeker.”

“I will not,” she said vehemently. “Some of us have to remain in fighting shape should the need arise.” She sighed. “Are you certain you would not be willing to lose all…this, Inquisitor?”

Jael snorted and gave himself another telling wobble. The edge of his belly butted up against his dimpled knees, squished delightfully between his massive thighs. “Do you really think something like this is easy to _lose_, Cassandra?” he asked. Then, before she could offer anyway: “I’m happy like this. Happier than I ever was. All three of us are.”

Bull gave him a gentle squeeze, holding them both against him in mingled pride and protection. “This is good, Seeker,” he said seriously. “This is the way it’s meant to be.”

Vivienne simply shook her head, tsking as her eyes traveled over Jael’s brazenly naked flesh and Dorian’s straining robe. Varric smiled his surprising support. And finally, Cassandra fully relented. “I suppose there is nothing I can do to stop the spread of this madness.”

“Nope,” Bull answered cheerfully. “My harem’s just going to grow and grow. Hey, who knows,” he added with a rumbling laugh, hands full of both his fat boys. “Maybe Commander Cullen’s next. He sure would be happier a whole lot rounder and freer.”

Now _there_ was an interesting idea. Jael met Dorian’s eyes, both of their brows raised as the vision became clear: tired, worn, sad Cullen sitting with them, drinking with them, _eating_ with them. Pieces of his armor popping off one after the other as they pressed their fleshy sides close and kissed his neck and caressed his bulging, slowly overflowing belly as Bull stuffed him over and over and over—

“No,” Cassandra said sharply, popping the vision just as dream-Cullen threatened to, well, _pop_. “_Not_ another one.”

Bull hummed. “We will see,” he agreed, then gave them both another fierce side-hug before letting go. “Speaking of getting nice and plump—why don’t you come on inside? Dinner is ready, and if I know my dathrasi…” He looked over his shoulder and winked. “They, at least, are starving.”

“Famished,” Jael agreed playfully, winding a fat arm in Dorian’s.

“Could devour everything put in front of me,” Dorian agreed dryly. He patted his own round gut in illustration as they began making their slow waddling way back to the house, their bemused friends in their wake. “Come to think of it, I already have, multiple times over again.”

Jael gave him a cheeky grin. “Oh? Is that why you’re so fat, love?” he asked.

Dorian swatted at him. “It’s certainly why _you_ are, amatus,” he said, sniffing. And the two of them made their way back into what had been their home away from home for perhaps the last time (because like it or not, real life and the Inquisition really _was_ waiting for them back at Skyhold), teasing and laughing and fat and happy at last.

Except: “So, wait,” Jael said, squinting at Varric, “are you telling me the _Champion’s_ fat enough he got stuck in a door?”

“_More than once_,” Varric answered with a rolling laugh, and that…that was its own happy ending, in a way.


End file.
